With All The Time In The World
by OrangeShipper
Summary: They've put themselves in an impossible situation; far too soon for any sort of affection, let alone love. With all the time in the world, perhaps their relationship could develop. But do they have it? Sequel to Fuel on the Fire - an AU from episode 1x02
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _So it turns out I'm (slightly insanely) starting another AU WIP. I must give credit here to **Tripp3235** for suggesting it, because without that I wouldn't have considered the possibility of taking this route AU!_

_This is an AU continuation of my M-rated one-shot, Fuel on the Fire. If you haven't read it, I suggest you do so first! If you'd rather not due to the rating, to sum it up in a nutshell, this AU stems from the idea that in Episode 1x02 Matthew/Mary's simmering tension all boiled over into ill-advised hate!sex. It was intended as a one-shot, but I did get thinking, and thought actually there's a lot of potential for AU drama, so... here it is!  
_

_Thanks to **EOlivet** and also **Silvestria** for talking through it with me to arrange my ideas into some sort of coherence!  
_

_And with that, here is part one enjoy!  
_

* * *

**With All The Time In The World**

What had he done?

What on _earth_ had he _done_?

Though it was uncommonly warm for the end of September, Matthew shivered as he lay in his bed, stark moonlight lancing across the room from the gap between his curtains.

_Mary_. How… _how_ had that happened? How had he let himself be so… overcome, by anger and arousal? How had he let his stubbornness overrule his rational mind, until he cared more for… satisfying some primal desire to not give in, for proving himself more worthy than she believed, to the point of…

He shivered again, squeezing his eyes closed as the faint memory of passion flitted through his veins. It had been… exhilarating, _stupid_, terribly stupid, and not at all how - well, how that sort of thing was _supposed_ to happen for the first time (for heaven's sake, they'd been in the sitting room! they were not even engaged, they did not even _like_ each other!

More than anything, Matthew was disappointed in himself (more so with every fresh shiver of arousal he felt at the thought of her) and… confused, because… let alone what he had _done_, what on earth was he supposed to _do_ now?

Of course, the answer was simple. He should marry her. But… he _couldn't_, could he? Good Lord, they barely knew each other and it could hardly be said that there was any affection between them! Matthew had always imagined, without exception, that he would one day propose to a woman he was in love with, who he could see himself living his life with… and then, all… _that_ would come at the proper time, that intimacy that _should_ only be between a husband and wife; not as they had taken it, each other, and yet - against all his better judgement, he could not bring himself to be sorry for it.

_Could_ he live with Mary? Could she be his wife, here, in Crawley House? He tried for a moment to imagine it. Kissing her on the cheek as he left for work, returning home to her warm embrace, her arms, taking her to their bed and shedding her nightdress and…

He sat up sharply, lowering his forehead to his bent-up knees as he drew several deep breaths. His eyes closed and he focussed on the blackness, letting it swirl and fill every crevice of his mind to rid his thoughts of Mary. Mary, Mary… quite contrary… His lip quirked into a wry, humourless smile. Contrary was absolutely the word to describe his cousin. She'd been so hateful towards him, _so_ hateful, and then they'd shared… _that_, that… bliss, that glorious intimacy that had overtaken his very being, and who knew what she thought of him now? They were on better terms when she left than when she'd arrived, certainly, but was it _anything_ approaching affection, or… love? How could it be? At the least, she was no longer so cutting towards him (they both realised that to be so was quite impossible, now) and at best she seemed only coolly tolerant!

Perhaps he could imagine Mary Crawley as his wife, if only things didn't get so damned confused in his head every time he thought of her, if every serious thought were not distracted by the memory of her warm body and her lips… but could _she_ imagine herself as such, simply because they'd - well, he hesitated to use the phrase 'made love' - _been_ together? Every objection she had towards him still stood; and though their family was right in that he could give her the position of Countess, that wouldn't be for many, many years and in the meantime she'd have to make do as a simple lawyer's wife. With him. No, he wasn't at all sure she'd take well to that, even now.

Which led him circularly back to the question… What on earth was he supposed to do now?

Sighing bitterly, he flung himself back against his cold pillows and fell, after a long while, into a deeply troubled sleep.

* * *

Things did not become any easier over the next week or so. For one thing, Matthew recognised that above all else he simply needed to _talk_ to Mary, and yet… found himself denied time and time again of the opportunity. It was laughable, he thought ironically, how they had somehow managed to inadvertently secure themselves privacy for long enough to get them into this mess; and now that they sought it (or he did; whether Mary was doing the same was impossible to tell) it proved impossible to find.

He'd hoped to bump into her when he visited the Abbey on business with Lord Grantham, the day after their… encounter… but, no luck. Instead he had to sip tea and laugh about his mother and Cousin Violet and receive a lecture on staff management from the Earl (deserved, he knew, though he blushed to think what his dismissal of Molesley to other tasks had led to). Then dinner, several days later, only he could hardly speak to Mary about anything of importance when surrounded by family in the drawing room. Still, she smiled at him - he did notice that - and he smiled back, and felt a sort of warmth between them. And while she made no effort in the slightest to actually speak to him properly, at least she was not _cold_ towards him, or cruel, as he would have braced himself for previously. Then, the instalment of his mother on the hospital board was not for another week, at which he was forced (of course) to sit beside her. It was torturous! She'd breezed past him as she arrived, with a cool smile and a warm "Hello," and her eyes dipped just a little enough, at least, to send a shudder of warmth down to his toes. He took his hat off and clutched it tightly between his hands, resting it on his knees as he sat down beside her, not daring to look at her and yet so, so aware of her being only inches to his side… Concentrating upon every breath, in, and out, he tried to ignore the greater warmth he felt on that side, smiled politely at all the right times, clapped when he was supposed to, tried to ignore _her_…

After the short ceremony had concluded, he stood quickly and held his hand out to Mary. She did not need his assistance to stand, but took it anyway, her eyes flashing nervously. In that moment, he realised that Sybil and Edith were already walking back to the door, his mother was still on the raised stage - they were alone, just for a moment –

"Mary," he said, mindful of his hushed tones.

"What?" she hissed back, tugging her hand quickly from his grasp which he had not yet relinquished.

He glanced around. "We've not had a chance to talk, since -"

"I was quite aware! And you really think that now is the time to, do you?" she raised her eyebrows incredulously.

"No, I... No. I just wanted to make sure you were alright." It was pathetic, really, and he blinked in frustration. But she was right, of course they couldn't talk _now_, his mother and Cousin Violet were already saying goodbye to Doctor Clarkson…

Her eyes glittered strangely, transfixing him. "Well, we'd better hope so! Else -"

Too late. "Mary?" the Dowager Countess swooped in and took her granddaughter's arm. "Come, take me to find your father," she grumbled, and Mary was quick to follow her. She cast one, hard, look back at Matthew as she went, and he stared at her and then… grasped the back of the chair beside him as he saw her hands fold neatly across her abdomen.

"Matthew?"

He lurched around to see his mother bustling up beside him. Naturally, she instantly took in his sudden paleness and discomfort. "Are you quite alright, my dear?"

"Perfectly," he swallowed and smiled tightly. "A little tired, I suppose. Congratulations, Mother - come on."

As they left the hospital, he trembled and blinked against the harsh, cold sunlight. Why hadn't he thought, how had he been so ignorant… Perhaps he would not have to decide whether or not he might marry Mary after all. Perhaps… that decision, that choice, was to be robbed from them also. In which case… she would only hate him even more, he was sure of it. Chilling tendrils of unease curled in his belly, and he felt suddenly sick. What a poor… _poor_ start to a marriage that would be. It… hardly bore thinking about! How had he been so _stupid_? Slowly and surely, he felt every dream of the sort of marriage he'd always wished for slipping from his grasp. This was wrong, all wrong, for how could they ever hope to achieve a marriage grounded in love, now?

Still… it was still only ifs, and maybes, and perhaps. For there was no way to know yet, not so quickly, and… he must, he absolutely _must_, find a way to speak to her properly, and soon.

* * *

After a fitful night and barely any sleep, Matthew struggled through work the next day. His mind was elsewhere, driven mad by Mary, by worry, no - terror. Even if she were to accept him (and she'd have to, surely!), for the sake of propriety, surely their family would suspect… He knew his mother would. Once more, he cursed himself for how terribly they'd met. To announce an engagement now, after an openly fiery acquaintance of only a few short weeks, would look rash by anyone's standards. Of course there would be questions, particularly if they'd have to insist on the wedding being as close to immediate as it could be; no-one could possibly imagine that their desire for each other's companionship was so intense! And it would come out, of course it would, how could it not? He could only imagine his mother's disappointment, and the Earl's; never mind that a marriage was what they'd all hoped for, everyone bar he and Mary, at least… But, he supposed, without that disastrous introduction to stoke their resentment, they wouldn't have driven themselves to such… angered passion in the first place.

Good heavens it was impossible!

He gulped down the tea placed hesitantly in front of him by his clerk, too quickly, and the hot liquid scalded his throat. By the time he left his office at five o'clock he felt an absolute wreck of a man.

While half of him wished he could excuse himself from meeting with Lord Grantham on his return to Downton, the other half hoped desperately that he might meet Mary while he was there. After a torturous discussion of cottages and plans over brandy (Matthew really wasn't sure how he was supposed to look the Earl in the eye, just now), he decided that had been a futile hope and made his excuses to leave as quickly as possible, just as dusk was falling.

Shrugging his coat on and taking his hat and gloves from Carson, Matthew nodded politely (thankful of the Earl's lack of comment on his distraction, if he'd noticed) and hurried out into the dim evening. Now, he just wanted to get home. He very nearly walked past the bench on which Mary was sitting with a novel, stopping sharply when her quiet voice broke into his tumultuous thoughts.

"Matthew. Matthew!" she hissed, standing up. He whirled around and stared at her for a moment, as if making sure she was quite real, before she waved him to sit beside her. It only took a second's hesitation before he did so, as she shivered in the cool breeze and tugged her coat more tightly around her.

"It'll be too dark for you to read for very much longer," he said softly, glancing at the novel in her lap and unsure of how to begin now that he found himself at last alone with her.

"Then it's a good job I don't intend to be out here for very much longer!" she snapped back, looking derisively at him. "I was waiting for you."

"I see. Well, I'd hoped to see you!"

Their eyes locked together and Matthew licked his lips warily. "Mary, I -"

She held up a hand, silencing him; but then it took a few moments to gather her words. He waited, as patiently as he could manage, feeling terribly aware of his chest rising and falling with each breath and the prickle of goose-pimples he could see along the back of Mary's wrist, between her glove and coat sleeve.

"I wanted to let you know," she eventually began, quickly, and so quietly that he had to lean forwards a little to hear her, "that you needn't worry. I am quite alright, as it happens, so you needn't trouble yourself any further over it."

Matthew frowned gently, surprised (though he supposed he shouldn't be, really, not now) by her directness.

"I needn't - you're - what?"

Her lips pursed. "I'm not with child, Matthew. So, there you have it. You are quite safe."

Struggling for shallow breaths, Matthew twisted to face her more directly and gripped the back of the bench. Relief had poured over him, instantly soothing, as he felt the delicious release from an impossible choice. But it was still, so soon!

"Oh! Mary, are you - quite, quite sure?"

"Perfectly sure," she said flatly. Then, when he continued to simply stare at her, she continued in a dry tone, "I can furnish you with the precise details of my proof if you like but I hardly thought you'd wish to hear -"

"God, no!" he spluttered, realising now instantly what she meant. Without thinking he reached out and grasped her hand, and though she flinched sharply she did not tug it away.

"So you see," her voice trembled quietly, and Matthew had to fix his gaze upon her lips in the gathering dusk to make out what she was saying. "You are released from any obligation you no doubt felt to propose to me."

There was a delicate vulnerability hiding behind her cold words that took Matthew by surprise. And realising it, though he knew she was quite correct - he _would_ have felt obliged, that was all it would have been - he suddenly knew with a quiet certainty that perhaps he really wouldn't mind marrying her, after all. She had every right to hate him, would have had even more right had they been forced to marry this way and in the same instant he understood her mockery and her coldness; for it stemmed from exactly the same reasons as his own bitterness and indignation at being thrown into this society at all. It was little to do with _him_, and his own resentments nothing to do with _her -_ it was merely the misfortune of their circumstances. His heart softened, and beat quickly in his chest.

"Do you -" he started hesitantly, still holding tightly onto her hand. "Do you still find the prospect of being my wife so _completely_ objectionable?"

It was not a proposal; certainly not of marriage, at the very least. But after what they had shared… how could their opinion of each other possibly be the same as it had been? He looked at her earnestly, almost hopefully.

She understood him, and smiled very gently, relaxing visibly. "No, or… not _so_ objectionable as I did, at least," she replied carefully, and still did not withdraw her hand.

Matthew nodded quickly. "Right." He licked his lips, suddenly shy (though what reason he had to feel shy before her, now, he could not think). There was an odd feeling in his chest; lightness, or warmth, or… something. His crooked smile spread a little further, and when he said nothing further, Mary flexed her eyebrow gently.

"What about you? Am I quite so abhorrent to you, now?"

He appeared to consider this for a moment before replying softly, "No."

Her responding smile was warm, and… perhaps Matthew only imagined the faintest air of invitation in it, or maybe they were only giddy from their release of any consequences, but… the sharp frisson of heat that suddenly shivered between them was undeniable, and all at once the air had shifted. Her perfume lingered in the air, her fingers curled softly around his hand, her lips were there, and…

"I'd better go in," she said breathlessly and stood up, smoothing down her skirt.

He stood up, equally shaken. "Of course. Thank you for telling me, Mary -"

"Oh, don't - well, good evening."

"Goodbye."

She blinked at him then hurried inside, clasping her novel tightly between trembling hands, and Matthew stood and watched her. He watched her until she'd disappeared into the warm glow from the Abbey's large, welcoming door, before turning to walk into the cooling evening.

He was released. He felt as though he could almost weep in relief. But… that did not make it _right_, did it? Anyway it was too soon, still, far too soon… They could hardly be termed friends, even, yet not on the basis of one conversation in which they spoke in peace! But maybe it was not… impossible. Maybe not anymore.

At least now, they had time. Time to discover their feelings, their natures, themselves and each other… Time to discover where they stood (where they _might_ stand) with each other. And Matthew was deeply thankful for it, if only a little less troubled.

Time would tell.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! Obviously, introducing sex to their relationship in 1x02 is a pretty huge leap from canon. I'd love to know what you think about it, and if you enjoyed this start then of course I'd love to know! Thank you!_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Hello!_

_Firstly, thank you so, so much for your responses to chapter 1! I'm very excited you're excited. I'm excited about this story. And - for all I'm aware at the moment that it's treading potentially similar ground to __Consequences of the Castle__ in terms of the situation, I would like to make it clear now that it will soon be veering sharply!_

_But really, thank you so much :) And thank you as ever to EOlivet for making sure I hadn't completely tied myself in knots here!_

_With that... enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Mary stared fixedly at her reflection, the mirror like the line of battle between her and herself.

What was she to do? Oh, she cursed her weakness to him! In his presence she crumbled, she forgot herself, she… had she _really_ told him that she wouldn't find marrying him _so_ objectionable?

She was _not_ going to marry Matthew Crawley! Not that he'd asked her. The fact that he hadn't asked her even now only raised him in her estimation, against her own sense. As a gentleman he _should_ have proposed to her by now, after what they'd done… but then, she did not consider him to be one anyway! So why did it matter? She didn't even like him. Only, she did… No, she didn't! However she felt about him, she did _not_ want to marry him, not the middle-class lawyer from Manchester of all places who lacked most sorts of social graces (the kind she'd expect, at least) and who insisted on retaining his pitiable _job_ in spite of everything he was being offered. Every reason she'd had to resent him before still stood, still held. None of that had changed.

Nothing had changed. Only… _everything_ had changed. Had it? She hardly knew. Her fingers twisted idly into the cotton of her nightgown at her waist, stroking distractedly over her belly. No, she was the same as she was before. There were no consequences. She had escaped unscathed. Except that she _hadn't_, for… she felt like an entirely different person than she'd been before she'd… before _he'd_… before _they'd_… done what they had done. She had given herself to him, of her own will and by her own choice, in complete control of her own body (her reflection mocked her with the lie, for she'd felt the most delicious sort of helplessness as her body had shuddered with his force) and in that very moment she'd felt that her life had changed. A spark had flickered in the dull existence of her life – she'd done something for _herself_, something that nobody else had told her to do, something that society did not dictate that she must – and she had _enjoyed_ it!

But the change was in and for herself alone, it was… nothing to do with _him._ Her opinion had not changed; not in the ways that _mattered_! He was the same, as she was the same. But then he kept… surprising her, as his voice dropped and softened and stirred her, as he held her under no obligation, as he looked at her with the most unnerving understanding in his deep eyes that she'd ever seen and her mind refused to process the way that that made her feel. Because despite that, despite his handsomeness and the heat between them and the way something within her began to flutter alarmingly every time he was near her or spoke to her… he was still the same. And she did not want to marry him.

It scared her, the cyclical nature of her thoughts and the way they would not settle, the way they wandered (always, somehow, back to him) and the feelings and memories they could not help but inspire. She didn't _want_ to feel that way towards him. In fact she wanted to withdraw from him as much as possible. Except that she didn't, for distance from him went against the cry of every fibre of her body but –

"Milady?" Anna's calm voice at her back interrupted her tumultuous thoughts. Mary blinked up, startled. "Are you – quite alright? If you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm perfectly alright, why wouldn't I be?" Mary bristled, her own annoyance at herself rising to the surface. Anna stepped back.

"Oh, nothing. You've just seemed a little distracted this evening –" Not just that evening, but for the past week at least, the maid thought.

Mary shook her head briskly. "Not at all. My mind was elsewhere, but doesn't everyone's mind wander a little sometimes? Really, Anna."

"Beg pardon, Lady Mary –"

"No, don't apologise – thank you for the concern," Mary sighed, and smiled weakly at her maid. "But I'm alright. Truly."

Anna waited a moment as if to be quite sure of this, and nodded.

"Alright, Milady. Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Anna, thank you."

The door closed softly, and Mary listened to the crackle of the fire as she tried to calm her spiralling thoughts. She was still on edge from her fear of being with child, and the overwhelming relief that she wasn't. She could not think clearly anyway, that's why she was so distracted, she was overwrought and tired and just needed to… stop… thinking about Matthew. But how could she stop thinking about him when he pervaded everything, every part of her life (her home, her family, her very existence) and every part of her…

She crawled beneath her sheets and curled up, stretched out, rolled over, tucked her arm beneath her pillow, shifted restlessly onto her back. She squeezed her eyes closed but there was only him, and they snapped open again as she stared blankly up at the canopy.

She could not help but like him, _want_ him, and it only made her resent him more.

* * *

Such feelings continued to plague her, and though she was reluctant to admit it something about them frightened her. The betrayal of her own mind and body against her wishes to be indifferent disturbed her; compounded by the fact that it would be so _neat_ to marry Matthew. And when her mother kept encouraging her to be friendly towards him, and even Granny believed she should marry him, she could not help that stubborn pride in her nature that riled against such instruction. She would _choose_ who she married, and she would not give in by softening towards Matthew.

But such an attitude was difficult to maintain, when every time he attended dinner or met with her father he looked at her in such a way… such a way that caused her to remember, that searched her and _knew_ her even across a bustling room. When he innocently asked how her day was, or what novel she was reading at the moment, and was she enjoying it, and had she walked anywhere now that the weather had cleared… Oh, he was no more particularly attentive towards her than to Sybil or her mother or anyone else, he mustered an easy conversation, but… she felt it, felt a piercing depth behind his words and his questions (or did she only imagine it?) and his eyes on her and every time he spoke to her she wanted only to shy away, against every deeper and more natural instinct she felt that drew her towards him.

And so she withdrew, answering him with deliberate coolness – never rude, now, never cutting or mocking or anything like that – but with an offhand toss of the head, a dismissive laugh, anything to show the world that she really couldn't care less for his conversation. Because she was too afraid of what it would mean if she did care.

For some weeks this went on, and Mary wondered if her ploy was beginning to work. She no longer became breathless _every_ time he entered a room, she no longer found herself waking most nights in twisted, dampened sheets from her dreams of him, she no longer felt the need to run to the farthest corner of the drawing room to avoid his conversation. The powerful intimacy they had shared would not have a hold over her, not forever, _he_ would not…

It _was_ working… until one day, as she was idly browsing the familiar bookshelves of the library without paying any attention to the spines as she knew them all already, with the intention of taking one to the drawing room and curling up with it before the fire until she would have to dress for dinner.

She heard the door open, and Carson's voice waft through before she saw him.

"…was torn down in the wind yesterday evening. He'd hoped to be back by this time to meet you, but said you were quite welcome to wait here until his return, if that would suit."

She froze.

"That's perfectly alright, Carson, I quite understand." Matthew's voice, and then his footsteps, and then _him_ as he came around the corner… "There's plenty to occupy my interest for as long as needs be –" He fell silent as his gaze fell upon Mary. She was sure that her heart only jumped so fiercely because she was surprised, not because it was the first time they'd been together alone since that evening in the dusk…

"Very well, Mr. Crawley." Carson nodded politely, and then to Mary, before closing the door quietly behind him.

For a moment or two they simply stood, as if sizing one another up, assessing the situation and their proximity and their solitude. Ready to flee, ready to defend themselves, ready to… Mary hardly knew.

"Hello," Matthew's quiet voice finally broached the silence. There was a tightness to it, as though he were holding something back, and he stalked over to the window and gazed distractedly out. Mary quickly turned back to the bookshelves in favour of looking at him at all.

"I'm sorry you've missed my father," she forced that light, airy tone of carelessness from her lips.

"I was working, it can't be helped," Matthew replied.

"I suppose so." She plucked a book out without looking at what it was, and flicked the dusty pages against her fingertips, inviting no further conversation.

She heard him sigh. She felt his eyes bore into her back.

"I suppose you've not been able to ride Diamond with the weather how it's been," Matthew tried again a minute or so later, when the silence grew too much to bear.

Mary shrugged, in case he was watching her. "Well it is just about November. It's hardly unexpected."

"I thought you'd be missing it, cooped up indoors so much. He seems like a fine horse."

"Yes, he is."

Terse silence hung for a moment more, before shattering with Matthew's exasperated cry.

"Oh for God's sake, Mary!"

She whirled round at his raised voice, and was shocked to see his rigid stance and bitter expression as he glared at her. The book slipped from her fingers to the table.

"What!" she exclaimed in affront, having to fight down something approaching horrified laughter in shock at his outburst.

"Won't you – take me seriously, for one moment!" he flung at her, as if she should know perfectly well, as if he shouldn't need to spell out the cause for his annoyance. But he did, as he stormed across the room towards her, causing her eyes to widen and her heart to pound in something between excitement and fear. The last time that he'd… God, no!

She swallowed as Matthew launched into a tirade that had clearly been burgeoning within him for some time. "I know we're not – _friends_, exactly, but – how do you ever expect us to be, how do you expect us to get on together even civilly when you won't make the slightest effort to engage with me!"

"To _engage_ with you?" she spluttered.

"To _talk_ to me!" he flung back, convinced she had misappropriated him deliberately and not at all in the mood for it.

Mary straightened defensively. "That's hardly fair, Cousin Matthew. If you remember how I spoke to you when we met then –"

"Oh, don't play games with –"

"I don't know what you _expect_ of my conversation, if it's not to your satisfaction –"

"Mary!"

"– or why you expect us to get on particularly at all more than we are –"

"You _can't_ be indifferent to me!"

His last words, a bitter shout with a wild note of desperation, resounded into the fragile silence that followed it as Mary's lips parted in a silent gasp.

Though she understood him perfectly anyway (she had from the very beginning), when she could make no reply Matthew suddenly softened as if ashamed of his outburst. He seemed to tremble as everything within him reached out to her. "Not after what we… I thought that –"

"You thought what?" she sighed wearily, everything within her aching from the deception. Was she deceiving him? She wasn't even sure; she only knew that the pain in his eyes made her desperately upset and uncomfortable, and she longed to run away from everything he was making her feel only she couldn't, of course she couldn't. She couldn't move.

Matthew swallowed, shifting almost nervously on his feet in front of her.

"I can't forget it, Mary, or – ignore it or pretend it didn't happen."

"But we're alright, I told you I wasn't –"

"I know that you're not – with child, and – thank God you're not! But that doesn't mean – that doesn't make it alright! And when we last spoke properly you led me to believe that –"

Mary's lips pressed together at his distress. He looked so vulnerable, and she suddenly realised herself as he must see her now. And she wasn't sure she liked herself.

"Oh, Matthew, I was hardly being sensible then." She shivered, remembering his closeness, and feeling it again now. The air between them was warming.

He shrugged in response. "Then tell me what I'm supposed to think." His voice shook a little, and he wondered desperately where he'd lost control so badly.

"I don't know," she replied helplessly.

Matthew turned away from her, then, and looked around distractedly. It wasn't as though he _cared_, not about _her_ so much, but… this wasn't right, it wasn't fair!

"I'm not asking you to – consider becoming my wife, Mary, you know that. We both know that would be foolish. But we – _were_ – intimate, and – that must mean something." He didn't know what it had to mean; he didn't know what it meant. He knew that the memory of it made him want her, even now as she stood before him. But that was precisely the problem; for those sorts of feelings couldn't be ignored or quashed down (he was learning that very well), and if they were _not_ to be married… it was impossible.

He shook his head gently and looked back at her, returning to his original grievance, only much softer now. "I don't expect us to – become lovers, or to marry within the month, or – even to become _very_ good friends – I don't know! But you can't – you can't be so indifferent as you'd have me and everyone else believe."

Her reply, when it eventually came, was so quietly whispered (her lips barely moving) that Matthew had to strain towards her to hear it.

"I'm not… I'm not indifferent to you."

Though it was what he'd pressed for, Matthew found himself rendered at a loss by the quiet, tender sincerity of her answer.

His lips parted gently in surprise, his eyes searching hers for any sign of withdrawal but there was none. And without either being consciously aware of it, that breathless gap between them seemed to melt and vanish and their lips brushed together, an immediate and paralysing balm to the ache that had unwittingly been building in each of them. It was so sharp and so perfect that Matthew couldn't help his quiet groan, and this time when he kissed her it was slower and sweeter and deeper than the time before and he was utterly powerless to it.

Mary melted helplessly into his arms. Part of her mind was screaming at her, screaming at her to stop, for being so weak, to stop this now before it started and hold to her resolve, but… it was impossible. She whimpered softly and moved closer to him, fingers twisting into his hair as her lips parted to meet his open mouth and… oh, whatever she had thought before, this was too delicious (gentle, tender… searching…) to resist. Her heart thudded almost painfully with trembling fear and anticipation, being so acutely aware of where this had taken them last time (but it couldn't, it couldn't… not now, not here…), and she pulled him even closer. He did not resist.

Inevitably though, after long, sweet moments, some shred of sense tugged relentlessly in Matthew's mind, reminding him of where they were. For all the sharpness of his building desire he found he could not ignore it, could not leave things so unsettled as they had been before; and when he finally needed to breathe again he reluctantly eased back, slipping his lips over hers in a gentle caress as they clung breathlessly together, his nose brushing past her ear.

It seemed such a mindless thing to say, now, but… he needed to.

"I only want us to – try to be friends, Mary." His whisper was warm, and tickled against her skin.

"Yes, alright," she breathed, unable to make any other reply.

"And I – know that you think I'm unworthy to be here at all still but I'm trying… I'm doing my best." She'd thought him ungrateful and improper and… no matter how hard he might try to deny it to himself, he desperately wanted her to see that he wasn't.

"I know you are."

She had been unwilling to see it, taking his efforts as an insult, a sign that her father had given up. But… he made it sound so reasonable… and somewhere she recognised that he was trying to earn her affection, whatever he might say. It was… only natural, somehow. And it seemed so simple, when he said it – to be friends. She _wanted_ to be friends with him, she realised. If she forced herself to consider it, he had a… certain, easy charm about him. He _was_ quite interesting – in his reading and conversation, if she would allow him…

Their pact was silent, but understood. There was nothing of love, nothing of any sort of future together. They could hardly think of that. But he would do his best to become a worthy heir to her home… and she would try to accept him. It seemed all they could do.

As their lips inevitably met again to seal their assent to this (though they knew _that_ had to stop, really it did), they barely had time for the slightest, most delicate taste before the door was opening and footsteps echoing. They sprang apart.

"Ah, Matthew! I'm so sorry. Thank you for waiting," the Earl breezed into the room, unobservant of his heir's flushed cheeks and the way his daughter's fingers trembled upon the pages of the novel she was searching.

Matthew couldn't say he minded; not on this occasion.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thanks so much for reading! They're both terribly romantically confused. As ever I'd love to know what you thought - I had a rotten time getting my head around them for this chapter and so I'm very curious to know your take on it! Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Hello!  
_

_I don't think I was expecting to have written another chapter so soon. But, I did, and here it is! I need to thank **EOlivet**, **Tripp3235 **and **Silvestria** for their copious amounts of talking through this chapter with me! And thank you so much for your reviews/comments/alerts etc so far - I'm absolutely thrilled!  
_

_This is very much a... development chapter. Lots of fundamental issues coming out here, that will find themselves cropping up again throughout. More was going to happen in it but I made the decision to end it where, well, where I did... and then THINGS WILL BEGIN TO HAPPEN. Quite rapidly and (I hope) dramatically! But everything here is important to get there.  
_

_Anyway, I very much hope that you enjoy it!  
_

_ETA: The timeline I am working from here assumes Matthew/Isobel arrived at some point in September 1912, and that episode 3 occurred in early December (with the hunt on the 7th). I'll add the timeline link to my profile, but that's the one I'm going from!  
_

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_Friends_.

They could do that, couldn't they? _Be_ that? Or try to, at least, that had been all he'd asked… So Mary really did try. It was easier, without the weight of expectation. As she allowed his conversation, responded warmly to him and without malice (because she felt no malice towards him, not now), such efforts seemed enough to keep the hankering of her mother and grandmother at bay. She smiled back at him when he smiled at her, and tried her best to not be afraid of the shivery flutter of excitement that she felt every time he did, because it did not mean anything. It didn't have to! They were being friends, and that was all.

Mary decided, as time went on, that there was a lot to like about Matthew after all. As they talked, either walking through the village on occasion or in the drawing room before dinner those nights he was there, she came to appreciate his understanding of her situation regarding the entail. There was nothing they could _do_ – he'd explained that to her clearly and carefully, and he was sorrier for it than she'd expected he might be. She found that she couldn't resent him for it, not when he… resented himself, almost, or certainly the situation. How he wished there was something he could do to help… No, there was no need at all for them not to be friends.

And if they were friends who… on occasion, when unexpectedly alone along the road to the estate, or in the library as he waited for her father, or in the drawing room when no-one else was down for dinner yet, found their fingers brushing and then their lips meeting and their bodies thrumming with quiet, stirring memories of pleasure, oh but only for a stolen moment or two… Well, what did that matter? There seemed a tension between them, always a tension… The more time passed, the more Mary noticed of his handsomeness; one day how blue his eyes were, the next week how strong and clean and neat his hands were, the next how though his hair flopped a little over his forehead it lent him a certain endearing charm… She felt herself drawn to him, like there was a string or a magnet hidden somewhere very deeply inside her that tugged her to him, that would not release her. Oh, and that tension begged to be released and she knew he felt it too, she could see it in his eyes and the helpless twitch of his fingers when he stood by her side; and yet whenever they chanced a moment to try and sate the feeling it never seemed enough (with every moment, every taste, the tension only seemed to sharpen).

But there was no urgency to it. They were taking their time, they had to. They _could_. And the more time they spent together, the more they discovered a shared humour, a shared wit, a shared passion for one thing or another… His conversation was intelligent, Mary realised, and she began to enjoy his company in whatever context and whatever company they were. But, _but_… he was still only Matthew Crawley. He was a distraction – a very pleasant distraction, but not her ambition. He had said that he didn't want to marry her (he _had_ said that, he'd used those words, had he not?) and she certainly still did not want to marry him. Oh, enjoying his company was one thing, and harmless (if intoxicating) kisses were another… but could she have a _future_ with him?

Maybe. One day. Not soon. Not very soon at all. But one day… If there was no Duke, or Baron, or anyone more suited to her than the country solicitor who would one day in the far off future be an Earl… Because, well, he wasn't ready to be an Earl yet. He _wasn't_. The very idea of going into society on his arm was precisely that, still… An _idea_. One still firmly consigned to her imagination, for Cousin Matthew, as handsome and pleasant as he was, was still not a very proper heir to an Earldom. But she could wait for that, and until he was she really saw very little need to contemplate the prospect of actually _marrying _him.

Matthew, on the other hand, neither saw nor understood these apparent arguments against what he saw as the inevitable outcome of their relationship. Oh, he'd always thought (ever since that day) that they _should_ get married… Of course they should! They had shared the deepest intimacy, and having done that he could not see himself marrying anyone but Mary. Even if it took some time to be sure of himself; for he would not think about marrying her until he was sure that he loved her, and that she could love him.

He could not deny (had not been able to, for quite some time now) that he was very deeply attracted to her. He had seen it more and more, with every encounter they shared. Her burnished chestnut hair, that looked silken and soft (and _felt_ it, from the brief instances his fingertips had brushed against it…), her dark eyes that he could lose himself in, the slender elegance of her form and her fingers…

But there must be more to it than that! There must be. It was what he'd hoped to discover in their burgeoning friendship – to see if they had grounds to build a relationship, to build love, upon. And he was beginning to think that they might; he really was, but then her… fingers would glance over his hand when they were alone, they'd lean inexorably together, the wired, coiled heat deep within him curling and spreading as their lips met and parted and…

Oh, it made things so _difficult_! He wanted to be _sure_ that they had a deeper connection than that but how could he be when it – kept happening? He found himself increasingly frustrated by it yet helpless against it, and found himself very often distracted as he tried to puzzle out his feelings like untangling a knotted ball of string.

One morning at breakfast, he folded open his newspaper with a deep sigh after another troubled night's sleep. His eyebrows rose at the date – was it December already? Had they really been here for coming on three months? It felt like a lifetime, and somehow in other ways like no time at all. Only three months ago, he hadn't known _Mary_…

"What is it, dear?" His mother took off her reading spectacles, putting down the letter she'd been reading over her toast as Matthew sighed again.

"What? Oh, nothing."

Isobel knew better than that. "Matthew, you've been out of sorts for a good few weeks now. Tell me what it is – are you finding it hard to settle, still? I thought you were quite happy with your new job –"

"I am, yes, it's not that." He shook his head and stared fixedly at his newspaper, but his mother was wise to him.

"Well, what then? You're not still feeling unwelcome here, surely? I thought you'd been getting on better with –"

"No, Mother, Lord Grantham and his family have been – very welcoming, more than I would've imagined actually. It's really –"

"You can't still be fussy over having a valet; really Matthew, there comes a point when you must simply –"

"Mother!"

At last; his newspaper came down in a flurry of irritation and Isobel's lip quirked into a smug smile. Matthew frowned. Isobel waited.

"You might as well tell me, my dear. I know it's been difficult, these last few months, and I do want to know that you're alright. Which you quite clearly aren't."

For a full minute more, he held out. Stared her resolutely in the eye, set his jaw, pressed his lips together in determination not to speak… and then somehow wilted. When he did, finally, speak, Isobel was taken aback by the hesitant vulnerability in his voice, and the insecurity that shone gently in his eyes.

"The thing is, Mother…" he started quietly, and licked his lips. "How do you… I mean… I can't," he muttered, shaking his head.

Isobel simply waited, reaching silently for his hand to encourage him before he could bring himself to start again. "I wondered – how you might know if you… loved somebody."

He blinked at her then so earnestly that Isobel's heart jumped strangely, and she found an odd, trembling smile on her lips. Her boy, her darling boy, to be asking about love… What did that mean?

"How do you know if you love somebody? Why – Matthew, is there someone you might –"

"Oh don't, Mother, please…" he glared sharply, withdrawing into himself again. Isobel panicked and tried to draw him back.

"I'm – sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not quite sure that I know what you mean, though."

Matthew frowned, and fiddled with the edge of the newspaper.

"I mean… If you think that you might love somebody, how do you – know that that's what it is? And not… something else? Or – that it's more than simple affection?" He could hardly mention the truth of it to his mother; how you might be sure that it was not simply… _lust_ which drove his feelings…

For her part, Isobel wasn't sure how to answer. Such a deep question for a Monday morning! And one that she hadn't, honestly, expected that Matthew would ever need help with. Because he was a loving person, he was good and kind and thoughtful and surely he'd know… Matthew waited quietly, taking a sip of his tea, while she thought for a moment. Not for the first time in these trying months, he wished dearly that his father was still here to ask things like this.

"Well I suppose you… It's hard to say!" Isobel eventually tried, doing her very best. "There must be an – element of wanting to be with them above anyone else, I think." Matthew nodded, and Isobel continued, encouraged. "They must be your best friend before all others – you know, your father and I could talk for hours and hours about the slightest thing!"

"I remember," Matthew smiled fondly, recalling how he'd sit in front of the fireplace and listen to them as he shunted a little model train around stuck-together tracks. That was what he _wanted_ with Mary!

"And I think you must desire to put their own needs above your own – or to put their considerations first."

"What do you mean?" he frowned.

"Well, that – if you love somebody, you want the very best for them, and you want them to be happy. So, within reason, you might set aside your own wishes to please them – because their being happy will make you happy, do you see?"

"I think so, yes."

"Oh, good." She smiled a little; did he want any more than that? He was looking terribly thoughtful. Perhaps that would be enough for now. "Is there… someone?" she asked tentatively.

Matthew's lip quirked up a little. "Maybe," he said quietly. "I'm not sure yet."

"I see. Well my dear, when you are sure – you know I shall be very happy," Isobel beamed affectionately at her son, who though he was talking of love and a girl he might want to marry, seemed more like her precious little boy than he had in a long time through all the trials of the last year. She tried not to wonder _too_ much about who it might be, but; there was hardly a wealth of choice, of women Matthew came into contact with now, and – would his sights be higher than they once might have, with his new position? She supposed he might seem suited to Lady Sybil, they had a lot in common but she was so young… He _had_ been talking more and more with Mary, but she knew how Matthew had riled against the idea of marriage (to _any_ of the daughters!) and… well. She would find out when he was ready.

When he visited Downton Abbey a few days later on an unexpected afternoon off, with the purpose of discussing his plans for the cottage renovations with the Earl, Matthew quietly hoped (as he often did now) that he might come across Mary while he was there. His mother's words had been playing on his mind. Was there anyone whose company he preferred, now, over Mary's? There was certainly no-one else he longed to see in the same way, no-one else who, when he saw them upon entering a room, made his pulse leap and his skin tingle. There was no-one in whom he took more thrill to debate, or discuss, or who he longed to make smile with some wry comment or other. Could he put her needs, her wishes, her desires, above his own? Somewhat alarmingly, he wasn't entirely sure he could deny her anything!

He'd been thinking about her so much, so incessantly, so distractingly, that he almost missed her. It was December; why was she sitting outside, on a bench still? It was icy cold! His heart leapt with the indulgent thought that perhaps she'd been waiting for him.

"Hello!" she smiled prettily at him. "Where's your bicycle today?" There was only a slight note of mockery in her tone, and it was fond. It was not acceptable transportation for a future Earl, she was adamant about that. Matthew wondered, considering Oh,his mother's advice, if perhaps he'd have to rethink it after all but… no, it was so practical to have! Mostly…

"I was worried all this dampness would ice over," he greeted her quietly, his breath curling into little white clouds in the air. "Thought it was probably safer to walk."

"Ah. Then shall we walk a little way together, Cousin?"

"Yes, alright," he smiled. Of course it was alright. Maybe he did love her… But already her hands linked through his arm and his body was warming and that familiar heat in his belly was distracting him…

"I don't want to go very far," Mary announced, and pulled him in a direction away from the main road out of the estate, down the gentle slope of the hill instead and away from the house. "If we walk down here there's a pretty little temple I don't think you've seen before, I expect you'll like it."

Matthew smiled to himself. Mary didn't like architecture, he knew. Or at least, while she could admire a structure that was aesthetic and beautiful, she did not share his real appreciation of it. She was… putting his interests above her own, did that mean… _Could_ it mean… He shivered.

Mary noticed, and walked a little quicker.

"I hope it isn't this cold for the York and Ainsty meet on Saturday," she muttered, hugging his arm a little tighter. "Not that I'm planning to ride out myself but the men won't appreciate it, and neither will the horses."

"No, I suppose not." Matthew really didn't know about these things, but… he remembered that he must make an effort to show some inkling of these sorts of aristocratic things now. "They'll be going close to here, won't they?" he asked, not really caring at all.

"Oh Matthew, the hunt will be starting from here!" she exclaimed as if he _really_ should have known that.

"Oh."

"Mama wouldn't have it any other way. Not when she heard that Evelyn Napier had written to me about it. You know how these things are." Mary stared at frosted leaves that lay pressed into the ground, feeling the point of warmth where she touched Matthew's arm. There was something comforting about it. About the way he didn't _expect_ things, or make presumptions.

"Who's Evelyn Napier?"

Something about the sudden tension in his arm made Mary smile.

"He's the son of Lord Branksome. I met him during the season in London last year – apparently Mama was great friends with his. That's what she says, at least; anyway she's insisted that he must stay the night as well after the hunt. His mother died not long ago, so Mama thinks that she can advance things by showing some hospitality."

"What do you mean, 'advance things'?" Matthew asked. His voice was very gradually getting louder and sharper, though he was obviously trying to restrain it, and Mary bit her lip to stop her chuckle.

"Well she would rather like it if he proposed to me. She desperately wants me to marry _somebody_, only the more she wants me to the less I want to. Don't you see that, Matthew?"

"Of course I do, you know that," he muttered.

"Yes, I supposed so. Look – there it is – just on the other side of the clearing, can you see?"

"Yes, I can see it."

The little Etruscan-styled temple nestled within a gap in the tall, surrounding trees. Matthew tugged his arm from Mary's grasp and wandered up to it, peering up at the gray stone that glittered in the frost and the sunlight. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"What do you think?" Mary stood back, watching him, fascinated by his fascination.

"It's rather nice," he answered. "Was it somewhere else, to begin with?"

She shrugged. "I think it might have been. You'd have to ask my father."

"Right. I think so…" The partitioning wall was flimsy behind the more classical columns, but it provided some shelter from the biting air, and Matthew walked within. It was very small, really, and lined with stone benches around three walls. Mary shivered, making her way to a more enclosed corner while Matthew stood in the middle, looking upwards at the ceiling until a moment later he turned back to her, clearly distracted.

"So – Lord Napier –"

"No, _Mr._ Napier. His father is Lord Branksome."

"Mr. Napier, then!" Matthew spluttered, evidently frustrated. "What's he – what's he like?"

Her eyebrows lifted elegantly. "You're coming for dinner that evening, aren't you? You'll be able to see for yourself."

"Mary…"

"What?" Oh, she knew exactly _what_. They both knew she knew exactly _what_, but she still took unreasonable enjoyment in teasing it from him! His shoulders were rigid now with tension (though he'd pretend it was the cold), his fingers flexed restlessly at his sides and his eyes glittered with a new intensity.

"Do you – like him?" He bit out from between almost-gritted teeth.

"What if I do? Does it matter?" Her voice had a sharper edge now, as she approached him.

"Well, I – no, of course not but –"

She was closer still, now, only a step or two away, her breath in cold puffs of white curling towards him.

"Mary…"

"Are you jealous?" She stood before him, eye to eye, mere inches separating them, so insignificant that the heat radiating between them was tangible and warming.

"I only – wondered," he ground out.

"You're jealous." While some part of Mary felt a stab of indignation that Matthew considered himself to have some _right_ to be jealous (there was no obligation between them, there was nothing!), that he should assume some priority of affection over her, more overwhelming was the realisation that… she relished the fact. She was reminded again that he wanted her… Oh, he wanted her, she could see it in his burning eyes and the rapid pulse fluttering visibly against his skin, he wanted _her_ and that knowledge speared a sharper rush of arousal and power deep within her.

Matthew's lips parted to make some reply, some defence of himself. But he had none. And she was so close, so close to him that he could feel her warm breath on his skin… He ached to reach for her, his world shrank around them, hands twitching as he fought his impulse to touch her.

"Yes, I am," he finally whispered. His voice trembled but his gaze was hot and unrelenting. "…should I be?"

Mary blinked, once. She considered it. She shrugged, noncommittally, an airy smile gracing her lips.

"What do you think?"

His lips moved wordlessly, eyes darkening as he stared at her, puzzled over her, _wanted_ her… and then both their questions sought to be answered by her crushing lips and arms in a sudden, searing, possessive kiss.

**TBC**

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A/N: _There we are! Thank you so much for reading :) As I said, many things will begin to happen next chapter, and... the rating will be going up so please add to alerts! I'd love to know what you thought - this fic is making my head go round in circles but I'm having so much fun with it! Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _Hello hello! I'd hoped to get this chapter written yesterday, but my brain decided to shut down on me and I had to go to bed at an unprecedented 9.30pm after having written 600 words since 1pm. It was more co-operative today, and so here you are!_

_I'm beyond thrilled with your kind responses so far for this fic. Thank you so much! I'm SO intrigued to hear your thoughts, particularly as it goes on - so thank you :) And thanks of course to **EOlivet** for her usual and sparkling polish and encouragement! I also MUST mention **Serena89**'s boundless and very touching enthusiasm, and **Tripp3235**'s support and inspiration, and - you're all darlings!  
_

_I very much hope you enjoy... Onwards!  
_

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**Chapter Four**

What had they been arguing about? Matthew could barely remember… He could barely remember anything, even the simplest of facts or concepts scattering from his fogged mind as all sense was driven out by Mary's relentless kiss.

Oh, yes, he thought, as her fingers clutched into his hair sent his hat toppling to the stone floor, her lips hungrily taking possession of his own as their bodies pressed together. _Jealousy_. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one that he didn't like, one that made him frustrated for even feeling it in the first place but… Slowly, and very definitely, he felt it seeping out from him with every sweep of Mary's tongue against his own. The heat of jealousy was being driven out, replaced with an ache of desire so strong he found himself gasping into her mouth.

Mary felt gloriously helpless and powerful all at the same time, in an intoxicating balance. As they staggered back together with grasping, searching hands, nipping teeth, sipping lips, sinking yieldingly under his weight onto the stone bench that encircled the little space, she realised with a powerful jolt how _different_ this was. At the same time as his kisses seemed somehow wonderfully familiar, there was a newness about this – an exhilarating realisation that all games were off, now. For all she'd teased him… As he groaned into her mouth when she writhed up against his hips, the sharp jolt of desire that seared through her signalled that this was… not about power any more, or dominance, or getting some sort of… hold over him. She wanted him… and that was it. She recognised that ache, now, the ache that was building and building the more and the harder he kissed her… and she knew how to satisfy it, and she wanted him to. She knew that he felt it, knew how she might relieve it in him, and the very thought sent chills sweeping down her spine.

He kissed her, as deeply as he could possibly manage, and urgently, fearing that if he allowed this headiness to abate for even a moment he would remember every reason why they must not… Oh, but he couldn't think of it now! She was choosing _him_… How could she have any intention towards another, how could it cross her mind to be with another, to love another, when they could be together like this… Arousal speared in his belly as he lowered his mouth to her neck, instinctively searching out more and more of her precious skin. When he encountered the hinderance of her blouse, and… even as he teased that open with shaking fingers, her corset, he lowered his mouth to her still-covered breast and groaned in frustration, settling instead to scrape his teeth over, making her yelp with desire, leaving his hand there in a firm and knowing caress as his lips returned to hers.

"God, Mary…" he moaned quietly against her lips, feeling her grin in response as she kissed him, and again, and again. They were lost… Though it was hardly the most comfortable of circumstances, nor the warmest, such things didn't occur to them, their coats and heavier outer garments shed regardless. When Matthew's lips descended again to the top of Mary's chest, where her blouse lay open and exposing a tantalising glimpse of her silken skin, he noticed the gentle rise of goose-pimples scattering over her flesh and felt the way her body trembled.

He shifted up to bring himself level with her eyes again, and whispered, "You're shivering…"

"I'm not cold." She answered with the most breathtaking, tremulous smile that was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. His eyes lowered darkly to her lips and an incomprehensible noise escaped the back of his throat, as her arms draped around his neck to pull him down again into another heated, blistering kiss.

They kissed as though to do so might satiate that fire of arousal, but their ministrations only stoked it, and more with every gasp and little sound from their lips. It was not enough, and so only moments more before Matthew's hand lowered, raising himself labouredly over her to find the hem of her dress. The motion of his searching fingers over her stocking-clad legs tugged it up, and up, till it had bunched around her thighs and…

"Oh God, tell me to stop," he groaned helplessly as his fingers glanced in a feather-light brush over hot, damp silk, and she bucked up against him. He had no power to stop himself, there was nothing left within him that could muster it, only her demand.

She moaned as she felt his fingers hover there again, and she squirmed to push her hips down, to reach him, to assuage the fierce ache within.

"But I…" she whispered breathlessly to his lips, "I don't want you to –"

It was all the encouragement Matthew needed to slip his fingers beneath the silk, and he shuddered as she cried out. How could she, or either of them, think of consequences when he was doing… _that_? Another, louder, cry wrenched from her lips at the pressure from Matthew's hand, and he watched her in adoring fascination. He'd never thought… never _dreamed_ that it could be this way, that he could give her such pleasure in such a manner, and it simply did not occur to him to stop so long as she responded so exquisitely beautifully. He bent his head and kissed her, felt her hands clutch his back with shaking, desperate fingers, carried on moving his own fingers back and forth over (God, and within) her… breathless and panting himself with delight as her hips shuddered under his hand, and more, and more, until they arched up desperately to the sound of her loud, splintering cry muffled only by his own mouth.

He only stopped when her fingers curled around his wrist, and he opened his eyes to see her flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes.

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered, and leaned up to kiss him deeply in a sort of thanks as her hands searched between them for the fastening of his trousers, anxious that he might share an ounce of the pleasure that had just ripped through her. He shifted a little to ease her task, and within moments his mind clouded as he thrust deeply into her.

For a second the sharpness of the sensation paralysed him, until slowly he began to move within her. She clung to him, and lifted her hips to meet him, encouraging him with every gasping moan. Dizzy with arousal, his lips pressed to her hot neck as he thrust again, and faster, and faster, desperate to relieve the ache that was so strong now it was nearly painful. Mary found her own desire had not abated, but only magnified by this different sensation (and _so_ different from the time before, with his weight so deliciously above her), and she instinctively clenched her legs around his waist to draw him deeper. Though the rough stone ached beneath her back she thrust desperately up against him as he drove into her, again and again, and faster, until their movements and their raw cries of pleasure fused together so purely and with such intensity she felt she might almost pass out. Her nails dug into his dampened shoulders as she suddenly stiffened and throbbed in blinding ecstasy, her helpless moan ringing louder and louder until Matthew's own climax followed only moments later, and he bit back a yell into her shoulder as he shuddered in her arms.

They were silent, and motionless beyond the rise and fall of their chests as they drew in shaky, calming breaths. Slowly, the world settled around them, it stopped spinning, and they became aware once more of it. Of rough, cold stone, icy air, sweat-dampened silk and cotton against cooling skin. Mary shivered, and this time Matthew did not ask before pulling his own jacket under her shoulders and around her, curling his arms under her back as he smiled down at her and kissed her softly.

He loved her. He was sure of it now, so sure… And he would marry her in a moment. Now that they'd fallen for the second time, and so eagerly (had either of them resisted it, really?), the idea of _not_ marrying her was simply… impossible, and not only for propriety's sake. She was perfect, she had given her answer… She had chosen _him_. Only, even with his pleasure-fogged brain, Matthew was dimly aware that he could not ask her now, not in this moment. He must ask her with a clear mind, and she must answer with one, not like this. That, at least, he could do properly – as propriety seemed to have escaped them so far. Maybe tomorrow… Or the weekend, or sometime very soon… he must ask her to be his wife.

Similar thoughts occurred to Mary, as she hung her arms around his neck and met his lips gently with her own. She was happy, so blissfully happy, despite any latent discomfort from their position… and she did wonder, if he were to ask her now (as she thought honestly for a moment that he might), what her answer would be. She _couldn't_ answer him… Why should they have to marry, what had changed? She liked him, so very much; that at least she could admit to herself now. But they still had time, or at least she hoped they did… Plenty of time. For now, the pure satisfaction of lying sated in his arms seemed more than enough, as well as the distant pleasure of smiling knowingly at him across a crowded room with not another soul aware of their secret. She had given herself to him willingly and… the thought made her quite perfectly happy.

Eventually, discomfort won out, and they shakily rose to their feet. They rearranged and replaced their clothes, and maintained a careful distance. When Matthew glanced out of their cold stone haven in the temple, he saw that dusk was falling fast.

"I should walk you back to the house," he murmured.

"Yes, alright." Mary smiled graciously at him and took his arm. They did not speak any more about their relationship; they could not, now. "Then you can always have the car to take you back to Crawley House –"

"No, I don't want to be any trouble. I think I could use the walk, in any case."

He kissed her softly on the cheek, and they made their way back to the rest of the world.

When he left her at the door, after pressing a lingering kiss to her hand and a weighted "Goodnight," Mary went quickly inside and up to her bedroom to dress for dinner.

"Where've you been?" Edith wandered in as Anna was lacing up Mary's corset, with Sybil following behind. Both had been ready for some time already.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I was taking a walk. Is that quite alright?" She hoped her blush was not too obvious, considering her state of undress, at the thought of what a truthful answer should have been.

"It's awfully cold," Edith snipped. "Especially if you hadn't bothered to dress properly for it –"

"I think the cold's quite refreshing," Sybil chirped. Mary smiled gratefully at her youngest sister.

"Exactly, darling."

There was silence for a minute or two, until Edith rather dramatically stated; "I saw Cousin Matthew leaving earlier. I didn't know he'd been here." She flicked restlessly at the pages of a book on Mary's dresser.

"Well why should you," Mary retorted. "It isn't as though he came to see _you_."

"I don't see why you suppose he wouldn't be!" Edith raised her eyebrows, feeling smug that this time she actually had something to back up her claim with. "Perhaps Cousin Matthew and I get on better than you think."

Mary's entire head upper body seemed to roll in derision of her sister, prompting Sybil to giggle behind her hand.

"Really…" she drawled scathingly. Oh, if only Edith knew… If only she could tell her _just_ how well she herself got on with Matthew, how he had called out her name in ecstasy, how his body had writhed in time with hers… Edith's notion was barely worth a reply. "I hardly think –"

"Really!" Edith cut back, undeterred. "In fact I'm going out with him on Saturday, just the two of us, to look around the churches in the area. He seemed quite keen, you know."

"What?" Mary whirled round, causing Anna to exclaim quietly as the corset ribbons slipped from her grasp, but Mary didn't even notice. "He's going with _you_ to look at churches?"

"Yes! Cousin Isobel mentioned his interest, so I took advantage of the opportunity and Matthew was very willing to set a date as soon as possible. Why; did you – imagine some claim on him yourself?" Edith replied scornfully, rising to Mary's shock.

"Of course not! Don't be ridiculous. You know I have bigger fish to fry; believe me, you are quite, _quite_ welcome to Cousin Matthew," she snapped. Inside, she was reeling.

How _dare_ he! How could he… lie with her, as he had, how could he have been with her in such a way, and all the time with these plans to see _Edith_… And alone? Look what had happened when they had been alone, looking around an isolated structure of old stone… Beyond that; what had happened nearly _every_ time they had been alone together! He had fallen readily enough to her charms, that first afternoon when she'd launched each of her charms at him; oh, Edith had nothing of her skill in such an area but really, she had no idea how weak Matthew may or may not be… And she knew very well that Edith was going with the intention of seduction. Oh, not in the same _way_, but… she meant to entice him, to get him on-side, and Matthew was so obliging and earnest that he wouldn't – or _would_ he? Had his seduction of her been only a ploy, a _game_? Mary shuddered as she realised how little she actually knew Matthew. She had _thought_ she did, certainly pretty well by now, but… had there really been any depth to anything they'd shared? She felt mildly sick, and hot with anger and insult.

She barely listened when Sybil questioned Edith a little more on it; which churches she planned to show him and such. Mary wearily flung barbs at Edith, feeling betrayed and irritable. And Matthew had _dared_ to question her friendship with Evelyn! To pretend to be _jealous_ of it when all the while he had planned _this_… It stung bitterly, and Mary didn't at all like the feeling, after she'd given everything to him.

Their mother came in, wittering about the hunt. Some foreign diplomat, as if Mary could _care_, now!

"And Mary?" Cora dragged her eldest daughter's attention from wherever it had skittered. "You will ride out with them!"

"Oh, Mama, must I?" she sighed angrily, her entire body reeling with annoyance as Anna closed the ties on her dress. The very last thing she wanted now was to go on the hunt while Matthew was… with Edith. Not that she'd rather go with them but… Oh, she hardly knew! Her protests made not the slightest difference to her mother's determination. She was going, it seemed, while Matthew was left alone to Edith's devices. The very thought of what they had done together only a short hour or two ago held no sentiment, now; the very thought and memory of Matthew only riled her all evening, and by the time she went to bed early, claiming a headache, the whole thing had stirred so wildly in her mind that she felt hot with anger at him, and at herself for being so weak as to give herself up to him.

That night, as she slept, thoughts of Matthew and Edith plagued her dreams. Perhaps it was irrational; but then some other part of her mind told her that she had no reason to believe it was _not_. They were in a church, Matthew was commenting on some aspect of the stonework that Edith didn't care a jot about, she approached him… and suddenly it had morphed to the small Etruscan temple, the stone bench, scattered clothes, taunting hands… She awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up sharply and panting in the moonlight, the fire died down to embers. Her throat was dry, and she went to her vanity and poured a glass of water from the jug there, taking a sip to soothe it and clear her head. She tried to sleep again, but still her dreams were haunted, and in them she was _weak_ and pined for him…

By the time morning had dawned, Mary was irritable and, if possible, even angrier than Matthew than when she had gone to bed. She was unable to properly sort reality from her dreams, yet, and so the only thought in her mind was that he had chosen _Edith_ over her to spend his day with on Saturday and now she must join the meet on the hunt and there was nothing she could do about it. And she was angry with herself for _wanting_ to do something about it, for _wanting_ Matthew for herself, because… they held no claim on each other! Or so it seemed, they did not, if he sought to go accepting any invitation a woman threw at him!

Determined to confront him, she picked at her breakfast and forced a small plate down without a word before walking quickly to Crawley House. Isobel answered the door, to Mary's surprise.

"I wondered if Matthew was in," she said without preamble. "There was something I rather wanted to talk with him about."

Isobel peered at the young woman in confusion. Matthew had mentioned seeing her yesterday on his return, and had been in such a state of euphoria the rest of the evening that she'd half wondered if he hadn't something to announce, considering his questioning earlier in the week. But… no, there had been nothing; and now she could see no fondness in Mary's eyes. Well… their matters were their own.

"I'm afraid he's at work," she answered quickly.

"Oh. Of course he is, how silly of me," Mary shook her head briskly. His damned _job_! How had she forgotten _that_! The fact added itself to the list of grievances building in her mind against him.

"He'll be back by six o'clock, I know; his train from Ripon usually gets in at half past five. But I'm sorry you've missed him now; if you'd like some tea –"

"No, thank you, I won't." It took an effort for Mary to remember the most basic of manners and smile politely. "If you'll excuse me I must get on – I'm sure I'll see Matthew later."

Isobel nodded, and smiled. "Alright. I'll let him know you called, when he arrives. I'm sure he'll be glad to know."

"Thank you. Goodbye," she smiled tightly and whisked back up the driveway with Isobel's own farewell ringing in her ears.

In the village, Mary sat quickly on a bench, trying to calm herself. If she had felt indignant before, it now burned even greater at her own stupidity for forgetting about his worthless occupation. She hated the fact that she was so angry about him. What was Cousin Matthew to her, that she should care so much about him visiting some churches with her sister? When she forced herself to wonder it, she only felt worse, for she did not want to admit how much she cared for him.

All day, such thoughts spun around her mind, no matter what she tried to do to distract herself. She was not used to feeling so helplessly about someone beyond herself, and she didn't like it one bit. And a part of her hated Matthew for making her feel this way, and while she _knew_ that it was irrational she simply… could not help it.

Well before half past five, she walked to the train station at the other side of the village, relishing the way the cold wind whipped past her ears. She hardly knew what she wanted to say to him, or quite what she expected him to _do_; she only knew that she was not happy with him and that he had better say exactly the right things to appease her or… or… she didn't even know, but by the time the train drew in with a puff of smoke and she saw him step down onto the platform, she was almost physically trembling with irritation at him which only increased when he had the audacity to… smile broadly at her in greeting.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! I'd be very, very curious to know your thoughts on the developments in this chapter - I admit, in my wonderments of this entire scenario I've surprised myself many times over with how I find M/M reacting to things. I always love hearing what you think, and its a great honour to do so - so if you feel so inclined, please do let me know your thoughts! Until next time! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Here we are again! :) Happy Monday!_

_I need to say a great big blanket thank you to every lovely person who's taken the time to discuss this fic with me, and for each review as I find them so thought-provoking, and all of it is helping me along enormously - you're all darlings!  
_

_And special thanks as always to EOlivet for her encouragement and polish!  
_

_With that... enjoy!  
_

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**Chapter Five**

When Matthew caught a glimpse of Mary out of the train's small window, he had to look twice to be sure that it was her through the spiralling smoke that threatened to obscure her and the clinging darkness of the winter evening. His heart leapt into his throat, and he stood up so quickly that for a moment he felt dizzy, and had to put his hand out to steady himself. The entire day long, he'd thought of nothing but her… He'd sailed through every appointment, every client, every file with a smile on his face, paying the barest amount of attention to it as he allowed his mind to dwell on the woman who'd delighted his dreams during the night. He'd thought about it, long and hard… his body trembling at the memory of her touch, her warm moans of passion against his neck, the softness of her skin where they met…

How could he possibly live his life without her? The very thought was impossible, when she pervaded every fibre of his being, his heart, his soul. She could not deny their connection… and it was _right_ that they should be together, for her own sake, that she might have the life and the title she was due. She challenged him, she made him smile, made him think… and he wondered how no-one seemed to appreciate her, not as she deserved to be appreciated, so far as he could observe at least. Not her father, not her mother who seemed to believe her a commodity to marry off to the nearest or highest bidder, oh the idea made him so angry! Mary deserved more than that; she deserved someone who was interested in her and her opinions and ideas and what she had to say, for he found her intelligent and witty and sharp… qualities which his appreciation of had only grown the more time he had spent with her. And above all that there was a passion, a fire in her, that seemed to outshine those around her into pale comparison, which seemed to be ignored or belittled or simply unnoticed.

He loved her, and the more he had thought of her the more he had grown determined that there was no-one else he could wish for a wife. He wanted to marry her, and he could only hope and pray that his feelings were returned. But after their passion of the day before… how could they not be? What objection could she hold to him now? Unless she viewed him only as a… plaything, or a toy, but he could not believe that to be true. He knew the way her eyes sparkled prettily when he smiled, how she leaned towards him as he talked, her little intake of breath when he made some observation or comment that pricked her interest. No, he was very sure that she liked him, she enjoyed his company, he could not doubt now that she found him desirable… What objection could she have?

Well, he knew that. And that had plagued him too, chasing round and round his mind in endless circles without a satisfactory answer. Despite everything she might admire in him, and everything he might offer her, she was still Lady Mary Crawley. Matthew was very well aware that he could not yet provide her with the life she was accustomed to, not for many years yet. Could she overlook that, for him? He wasn't sure, yet, but… oh, he must ask! And if she couldn't then he would wait; he would wait as many years as it took if they could only carry on as they were and be promised to each other for that one day, one day, when she would be ready to take him as her husband.

Whatever it took, Matthew was sure as he stepped off the train with a wide, welcoming smile, that _one day_… Mary would be ready to become his wife. As he walked towards her, seeing her eyes glittering in the darkness, his heart raced at the thought that she'd come to meet him – had she been thinking of him all day, as he had of her?

"Hello!" he greeted her brightly, feeling his face warm from the depth of his smile. But she didn't return it. In fact… there was a coldness in her expression, one he hadn't seen for a long time, now. A frown glanced across his features before he smiled again, a little more gently, this time. Everything within him ached to reach out to her, but he did not. "Were you waiting for me?" he asked shyly.

"Yes, I was," Mary replied without warmth or affection. She barely even looked at him. Waiting until he'd collected his bicycle (she glared uncharitably at it), she made sure to walk on the other side of it to him; a physical barrier to match the one between them she felt in her heart. Everything about his gentle, endearing manner stoked her anger and injustice at his actions. His voice, that invoked memories and feelings that only stung now…

"Not long, I hope," he said softly. "It's horribly cold and dark! But I'm so glad you –"

"Mama has instructed me to accompany the hunt tomorrow, you know." Her interruption was sharp, and still she stared at the ground just in front of their feet. The erratic squeak of Matthew's bicycle tyre was driving her to distraction and filling her with an unreasonable rage against him. Unnerved by her manner, Matthew frowned.

"Oh? I thought you rather enjoyed hunting." The slightest edge of wary hardness hung upon his tone at the memory of _that_ conversation.

"I do," Mary shrugged. "But I don't enjoy being made to do it, whether I'd like to or not. As if what I wanted didn't matter, or how I felt."

"Of course it matters," Matthew said quietly.

"Does it? Not to Mama, apparently. Whether it be hunting or husbands, she shows little interest in my opinions."

Matthew's heart fluttered. "But – we both know you won't marry anyone you don't want to." He glanced unsurely at her, but her expression was hard and empty.

"No. I won't."

"Well, then," Matthew exhaled nervously, breath swirling visibly out in a little cloud. "If you're settled on that score… Perhaps hunting –"

"Would you?" Mary suddenly turned, and looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"Come with us tomorrow. If I wanted you to."

Matthew found himself utterly thrown by the request, and the bitterness behind it. He couldn't understand why she was being so cold, why everything she said felt like a dig, or a test. His lips parted and closed ineffectually for a moment or two.

"I – can't, I'm afraid tomorrow I'm already committed to –"

"Oh! Yes, how silly of me," Mary tossed her head angrily, refusing to look at him. "You're spending the day alone with Edith. Which naturally is far more important than –"

He couldn't understand her anger, and he spluttered in his own defence.

"Edith – asked if I'd like to see the churches in the area, and I _would_, so I accepted her offer…"

"And it never occurred to you to mention it, when we were together?" she whirled on him. "You were with me and you didn't _think_ to –"

"I didn't think it was important!" Matthew exclaimed, frustration rising in his chest. "I didn't – think you'd be _interested_ in old churches and – I thought it kind of her to offer!"

Mary sneered contemptuously. "And you _really_ suppose Edith is interested in them, do you?"

"But why else would she –"

"For heaven's sake, Matthew! You cannot be so short-sighted. Don't you imagine Edith would relish the chance to be Countess if you gave her the slightest encouragement?"

"_Encouragement_?" he balked at her, unable to believe the depth of her accusation. "I can't imagine what encouragement you think I'd give Edith! Not after what we've – done, Mary…"

She turned on him. "Can't I? Is it any different, to accept Edith's invitation to a church than mine to an old folly of a temple? Would you do the same with her there as you did with me?" All her anger and worry spilled out in a vicious, hurtful attack that caused Matthew to pale in horror, visible even in the moonlight.

"My _God_, Mary!" he shouted, indignation colouring his expression that twisted into hurt. Everything he'd thought and hoped for seemed to be crashing down around him and crushing him with its weight under her raging accusations. He simply could not understand, how… _How_ her attitude could be so turned, how she could believe such terrible things of him; and he felt a flame of injustice and anger at it. "How can you possibly say that, how – can you even _think_ it of me?"

"I don't know!" she answered coldly, before flinging another dart at him. "Have you given me any reason to think otherwise? Or are we all the same to you, we daughters. Perhaps you will turn your attentions to Sybil next; though heaven knows she understands less of these things than Edith or I so if you do please –"

"Good Lord, _stop_!" His expression was a mask of bitter rage and shock. Every word from her lips stabbed at him, wounded him, more painfully than he'd imagined possible from words alone. Remembering at the last moment their very public situation as they walked through the village, despite the evening hour, he reined in his fury as best he could and lowered his voice to an angry hiss. "You must realise how ridiculous what you're saying is! You're – jealous!"

"Jealous!" Mary scoffed; though it angered her to suspect that that was exactly what she felt. "Of _Edith_? You must be joking. Anyway I couldn't care less what you do together. I only thought you should come on the hunt tomorrow, if you intend to be any sort of a proper Earl one day at all."

Matthew bristled with frustration at her deflection, and his lips pressed into a hard line, his steps quicker and more forceful as if he were trying to distance himself from her, but she kept pace.

"I can't throw her over," he snapped ungraciously, the leather of his gloves flexing over his tightened knuckles as he gripped his handlebars fiercely. He didn't want to, not now. It wasn't that he had any _great_ desire to spend time with Edith over anything else, but he certainly wasn't going to change their plans for such irrational reasoning as Mary was flinging at him! He would not give her the satisfaction. "And your father isn't joining the hunt; so I will take my cues on learning my role from him if you don't mind, and not from you."

"Oh do what you like, Matthew, it hardly matters to me." Mary folded her arms tightly against the cold and glared into the darkness, shivering not only from the cold. Matthew's harsh, bitter laugh speared into her chest.

"Doesn't it? Then forgive me for wondering why you've waited in the dark and the cold to press me on the matter. Or was it only to insult me, and accuse me of things you know very well are – shameful, Mary!" His breath whipped out in little flurrying clouds into the evening in his anger. His skin trembled, and burned, and he could not process the crush of disappointment and frustration that rose as hot bile in his throat. "I thought we were past that; far past it," he muttered.

She flung her arms in a helpless gesture of agitation, her voice loud and sharp. "Apparently not! I waited to – give you a chance to explain yourself but –"

"I don't owe you any explanation for my actions!" he shouted; actions which he knew to be perfectly innocent, perfectly harmless, so far as he was concerned – he should not have to justify himself! Perhaps he was being unreasonable; the possibility pricked in his mind but so was _she_, and he was so furious at her accusations that he could not help it. "Particularly actions which you – claim not to care about in any case!"

Mary was tripping over her own arguments and the awareness only angered her further, and incensed her frustration with Matthew for pulling her up on it. She could not be so weak as to indulge him with her fears; not more directly than she had already tried, and instead of reassuring her of them he had turned on her. Had she been so utterly wrong about him? She turned and pierced him with an icy frown.

"No, I suppose you're right. If we are truly nothing to each other then there's no explanation required at all."

Matthew's lips parted wordlessly at the harsh stab of her words. How cruelly she could cut him! _Nothing_ to each other? His gut was a twisted wreckage of pain and hurt, to find the hopes he'd cherished through the night and day so irrevocably trampled on.

"For God's sake, Mary…" he muttered desperately; pleading with her on some level though he could not lower himself to apologise or to forgive her.

For a moment she held his unrelenting gaze. She wondered, for the briefest spell, if they might kiss each other. It seemed to be how their arguments usually resolved themselves, she thought bitterly. But not this time. The very thought of his touch and his lips and his skin made her tremble with distaste. They stood, locked in a silent, wordless battle of wills until she snapped the contact in what felt like a physical blow, looking past his shoulder to see the lights of Crawley House glowing softly just behind him. _Thank God._

"I must be going," she said quickly, still not looking at him. "I do hope you enjoy yourself tomorrow –"

"Mary, it's dark and it's freezing…" Matthew riled at her insincerity, but still it could not entirely overtake his sense. "You must let me –"

"No." Her eyes whipped to his, now; daring him to challenge her. He was nothing to her, and she would not accept his charity, his assistance, his hand… _Nothing_. "I'm perfectly capable of walking to my home by myself. Goodbye, Cousin Matthew."

He stared after her as she stalked into the icy darkness, stirring with an even sharper cold than he had felt as they walked at her absence. But the cold mingled with the heat of his rage, that speared hotter at the coldness of her parting brush-off. It stormed within his chest, and he longed for a release – to run after her, to punch something, to shout and yell or kiss her… No, no, not that… But instead all he could do was slam his bicycle against the garden wall with unnecessary force, and swing the door open so fiercely that the hinges squealed in protest as he stamped into the house.

Making his way to the dimly lit sitting room, glad of the shadows to mask his anguish that must be scrawled upon his features, he sank into his usual chair and flipped open a novel on his lap with a great deal more vigour than usual. It wasn't long before his mother wandered in, and he was glad of the distraction from his spiralling thoughts of Mary. But when it became quickly apparent that his mother's source of conversation was tomorrow's arrangements, he let out a heavy sigh, unnoticed by Isobel.

"You remember we're dining there tomorrow evening," she peered at the letter in her hands, and Matthew looked up, with as disinterested an expression as he could muster. "There are two young men staying, so you won't be so outnumbered for once!"

"What men?" he asked testily, fidgeting a little warily. Napier, he'd known about… Had Mary anticipated their argument and invited another, simply to rile him further? He wouldn't put it past her, not now. He tried desperately to cool his simmering bitterness and listen patiently to his mother's answer as she held her glasses to her eyes and squinted in the dim light.

"Uh… A Turkish diplomat called something I can't read and… Lord Branksome's 'charming son', who's to be flung at Mary, presumably!" she announced with a faint air of self-righteousness.

Matthew pursed his lips together, his brow creasing gently as he frowned thoughtfully at his book.

"When it comes to Cousin Mary, she's quite capable of doing her own flinging, I assure you."

How well he knew it, he thought bitterly, relieved when his mother took his comment wryly and laughed.

* * *

By the time Mary had reached the Abbey, she was in no mood at all for dinner and excused herself with a terrible headache. Thankfully her mother was only too eager to oblige her, wanting her to be fit and ready to dazzle her companions the next day. Winter evenings, she decided as Anna brought her up a tray, were absolutely intolerable. She picked at her food, lacking any sort of appetite, and paced restlessly up and down her bedroom trying her very hardest _not_ to think of Matthew. Every time she thought of him only served to incense her hatred of him. She hated him, she loathed him, she could quite happily never see him again in her life… The inescapable fact that he would always, inevitably be a part of her life was unspeakably unfair, and Mary crawled under her covers weeping bitter tears into her cool pillow.

She hated him and she hated herself for having given herself so easily to him, for having _believed _him, all those times he'd smiled at her and talked to her as nobody else had, how he'd… _touched_ her, worshipped her, _loved_ her as nobody else had and made her truly believe for the first time in her life that she really, really _mattered_ to someone... To him. But now his adamant refusal to back down on the matter of Edith, the scathing way he'd accused her of jealousy, of being ridiculous, _childish, _even… had shocked her and hurt her more than she would ever care to admit. He did not understand her, and she could not understand him, and she wished so very fervently once more that he'd never bothered to barge in on their lives at all.

She awoke in the cold light of morning with fresh resolve.

Matthew would _not_ hold power over her any more. He _did_ not, he _should_ not. She owed him nothing, no loyalty, no commitment… and if he was so foolish as to believe she did, that they must be tied somehow by what they had done together (she shuddered to think of it, and riled against the latent memories of pleasure) – well, she would show him wrong.

Perched securely and familiarly atop of Diamond, Mary felt her confidence settle itself again. Perhaps this wasn't such a terrible thing to be made to do, after all – rather this than sitting in the drawing room with her thoughts left to dwell on her sister and her lover all day. The thrill, the exhilaration of a hard ride would calm her and ready her to face him, and to show him that she couldn't care a jot for him.

"Oh wait a minute," she drawled in bored tones to Lynch, "here's Mr. Napier." Instantly her face lit into a breathtaking smile. She could do this, she could pretend, play this part – just for a day. Just enough. "I was beginning to give up on you – we're moving off!" she teased him, her voice dripping with charm.

Evelyn droned on about horses and grooms and difficulties, and Mary smiled and laughed at all the appropriate moments, even making a wry quip about their Turkish companion.

"Don't worry about Kemal," Evelyn smiled confidently. "He knows what he's doing on a horse."

"Well where is he?" She looked around. It couldn't hurt to have _two_ gentlemen fawning over her, certainly not.

"Fussing! He's rather a dandy."

Mary chuckled dryly. "Well, I can see him now. A funny little foreigner with a wide, toothy grin and hair reeking of pomade." They shared a little smile, a little laugh, and she felt her confidence rise a little higher. So far, so good.

"I wouldn't quite say that… Here he is now." Evelyn smiled, and nodded to their side, where Mary politely turned her gaze with a wide, ready smile perfectly in place.

The smile dropped helplessly from her lips as the handsome Turk eased up beside them, lifting his hat in greeting with a disarming smile.

"Lady Mary Crawley, I presume!"

Mary had to remind herself to breathe. For he was… so very, very unlike – in fact, almost the complete opposite of – Matthew. _Perfect_, she thought to herself with a tentative smile.

"You presume right!"

Her heart fluttered as she began to think that things may very well go even better than she had hoped.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thanks so much for reading :) I feel it's probably prudent to reassure you here that this fic will, ultimately, have a happy ending. It will. Promise. Yep. As always I'm so intrigued to know what you thought, and your feedback always makes my day! Thank you!_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Happy Monday! _

_This chapter took longer than I'd hoped to write due a stressful week, but... here it is. Thank you SO much for your response to chapter 5 - I'm literally fascinated by how differently different people read it, and... it's just an absolute wonder. Thank you!  
_

_To introduce this chapter a little, I have borrowed heavily in scene and dialogue from episode 1x03. I hope you'll forgive me for doing that and understand why, as it is so ENTIRELY repurposed in the AU context of this fic, and actually so much of it just slotted into that context better than anything I could have made up myself. Rest assured that this is the case for this chapter alone, and the next will be back to entirely original.  
_

_Anyway. I hope you'll enjoy it, and thank you to EOlivet as always!  
_

_ETA: Possible trigger warnings here. Mary/Pamuk themes - just to let you know.  
_

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**Chapter Six**

Matthew blinked and stared up at the little church's side aisles, as golden sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass window spreading dappled patterns of colour over the cold stone floor. A little sigh escaped his lips, nodding as Edith read from the guidebook behind him.

"Yes, you can – see that, in the treatment of the stone," he murmured, his mind far away. Looking around churches of stone… Stone buildings, old, a temple… Mary… "Was the screen a Cromwell casualty?" He shook himself back to the present, taking a physical step to remove himself from the memory.

"I – I dare say," Edith nodded.

He smiled weakly, and stared back towards the gleaming, coloured, shifting shafts of light. He had been a fool. An absolute fool.

All day long, he'd been fielding questions about far more than churches from Edith. Much as it pained him to admit it… perhaps Mary had been right. But – it didn't make any difference, not to him – whatever Edith's intentions, it didn't change his own! And now he only felt desperately, desperately sorry for arguing with her, however unreasonable she had been… however deeply she had cut him. He couldn't help but think, as the day had dragged on, that he had made a mistake. He _could_ have rescheduled with Edith, he _would_ far rather have been with Mary, even if… even if that had meant going on the hunt and looking most likely ridiculous while he was doing it.

"I wonder how Mary's getting on," he wondered absently, voicing without conscious awareness the subject dearest in his mind. His thoughts were ticking over; could he make amends somehow, could he see her, speak to her… Was she thinking of him? Was she sorry? She couldn't… she _couldn't_ have meant what she said, what she thought… She couldn't possibly believe such things of him and trust him so little; not after everything they'd shared. But how he hated himself now, for not believing that yesterday.

Edith, next to him, shrugged. "Alright, I should think. Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered." He muttered, waited a little and tried a more direct approach. "Will she stay with the hunt the whole day?" Perhaps… if not, he might have a chance. He could see her before dinner, before they must hide behind the conventions and proprieties of company and pretend they were as nothing to each other… as she had claimed to believe. But how _could_ she? And how could he apologise, how could he make her see how sorry he was, amongst her family who couldn't possibly understand what they had quarrelled over?

"You know Mary," Edith's wry smile was cold and unaffectionate. "She likes to be in at the kill."

Matthew pursed his lips a little, both at burgeoning realisation that this apparent distaste between the sisters may have accounted in large part for Mary's anger towards him yesterday (and what a fool he had been to not realise it sooner) and at the dashing of his hopes to make his private apology… He only hoped she would understand, from what assurance he could give her in smiles across the crowded dinner table. Which wasn't much at all…

Well. With little else to do, he sighed deeply and suggested one more church before they lost the light. He might as well make the most of it.

* * *

As Mary reclined in the steaming, perfumed water of her bath, she smiled to herself as every ache of her mind and body ebbed gradually away. She sponged away the mud flecked across her skin, watching as it swirled and disintegrated in the water. The hunt had been exhilarating; she'd felt the thrilling rush of excitement as they'd raced over the landscape, with confidence and ease and – for a moment she wondered how Matthew would have managed with it before instantly squashing the thought of him. While _he_ had been doing goodness knows what with Edith, she had found herself perfectly at ease in the welcome company of Evelyn Napier and Kemal Pamuk. If Matthew could go off with any woman he liked privately and enjoy himself (her body trembled for a moment though she put it down to her aching muscles), well, why shouldn't she enjoy the flattering attentions of two charming men? Was he the only person she might accept attention from?

No, he was not. And she'd been aware – very aware – that both her companions had found her attractive and desirable. Oh, Napier was already a friend and pretty dull with it, but Kemal… He was exotic and exciting and enticing and she'd recognised that glint in his eyes; one she'd seen in Matthew's, one she knew now she had the power to provoke from more men than her impossible cousin. Oh, he thought that he was special but… no, she could attract attention from far more than Matthew Crawley.

Not that she _wanted_ it, so much – she'd always been pretty confident in her attractions but to have it confirmed in this way was an unexpected thrill – but she wanted Matthew to know that he held no power in that way over her. If he could turn his attentions where he liked, then so could she – and Kemal gave her the perfect opportunity to prove that to him. If he was only here for this evening – well, she need never see him again once he'd left in the morning and it wasn't as though anything could possibly come of their flirtations (such a thought was ridiculous! A Turk!) – then she may very well make the most of the opportunity to show Matthew that he must not take her affection for granted.

With this determination fresh in her mind, Mary chose for the evening the dress which she knew was her most alluring. A deep shade of red with embroidered gold and fluttering cap sleeves, a provocatively fitted bodice offset by her long black gloves, complementing necklace and tall, red feather… If she was going to make an impression, she might as well do it properly.

One look at Edith's sour expression when she appeared in the drawing room told Mary that things had probably not gone as she'd expected with Matthew. So much for that, at least, she thought with a sense of satisfaction. And this was only rewarded further by the appreciative sweep of the men's eyes over her as she entered… Yes, she could be sure of her charms. And whether Matthew's intentions with Edith had been honourable in truth or not (as she now suspected though refused to admit that they most likely were, knowing his nature) he had still belittled and dismissed her concerns, insulting her in the process. _That_ was intolerable of him.

When he was announced into the drawing room with Isobel, Mary fought every instinct to look at him, turning instead to Kemal and rewarding his comment on the limitations of English transportation with a sparkling laugh. She wondered if Matthew would approach her. It was only a little while before he did; and she was forced to turn and acknowledge him as she felt, rather than saw, him appear beside them.

"Cousin Matthew!" she anticipated him, her eyes bright with insincere and cold charm. "I know you must have had such fun today with Edith, but I'm afraid you missed a marvellous time."

"Yes, I –"

"Let me introduce my companions – Mr. Evelyn Napier, you know Lord Branksome's son, and Mr. Kemal Pamuk – who apparently is vital to the cause of world peace, or something like that." She felt an indulgent glimmer of smugness as Matthew's eyes flashed darkly at her praise of them, darkening further when she turned to them to add with a brilliant smile, "My cousin, Matthew Crawley."

"Very pleased to meet you," he muttered ungenerously, shaking both their hands though his gaze only wavered from Mary for a moment. What was she _doing_?

"I'm sure Lady Mary exaggerates my importance," the Turkish gentleman laughed, and Mary laughed too, waving a hand dismissively.

"Not at all! That's what Mr. Napier assures us all, anyway – or would you call him a liar?" Mary teased, everything about her manner expressive and flirtatious and alluring. And none of it directed at Matthew, who smiled tightly, feeling her cold brush-off as an almost physical pain as Kemal laughed again, leaning towards her.

He'd been wrong, it was painfully clear. She was not sorry, not sorry at all, and was punishing him for his own faults. He was loath to feel that he deserved it, riling bitterly against the injustice of her mockery. Thankfully before he could allow himself to become much more agitated, they were called through to dinner. His instinct was to offer Mary his arm to have at least one word in relative privacy but before he even had the chance, she had tucked her hand through the Turk's elbow and walked away. He pursed his lips angrily and followed them, trying to ignore his rising frustration.

All through dinner, he watched them, and Mary felt it. She felt his bitter gaze burning her from across the table, and while her first instinct was a stab of remorse she was able to quickly stamp it down with her irritation at the fact that he was making his jealousy sickeningly obvious to her family. Perversely, her awareness of Matthew's latent desire for her only served to empower her in her flirtations with Kemal, whose flattery was equally inspiring. She felt wanted and powerful – and how dare these men believe themselves to have some claim to her, simply because she was a woman?

She leaned in closely as he whispered to her, confident in the knowledge that Matthew was seeing it and surely regretting his hurtful dismissal of her yesterday. In truth she found the Turk, handsome and charming though he undoubtedly was, to be a little _too_ forward to her liking – to speak in not so veiled words of satisfaction, indeed! – but as the thought threatened to surface that she preferred and missed Matthew's conversation and company, she firmly reminded herself that it was only this pretence, only for this evening, only enough that he would not take her for granted in future. She did not _want_ to think yet about the likelihood that they would fall back together sooner or later, that they must inevitably find each other again, that really despite everything she knew deep down that… _no_. She would not give into that thought, not this evening, not yet. She could not give in to him. She turned determinedly back to Kemal, raising her glass delicately to her lips and taking a dainty sip, lavishing him once more with her undivided attention as Matthew looked bitterly on.

She was distracted from her task as Evelyn spoke up.

"Lady Mary rode very well today," he complimented her brightly. She smiled graciously.

"Why did you send Lynch back?" her father asked, then, and Mary bristled with frustration at his treatment of her like a child. As if she needed protection, as if she could not perfectly well take care of herself! But then… she saw an opportunity to further her mission.

She placed her glass down with a flourish and lifted a hand to play with her necklace at her throat.

"I had my champions to left and right," she passed a dazzling smile between Evelyn and Kemal, not gracing Matthew with even one glance. "It was enough!"

Matthew watched her with a heart sinking like lead, as he lowered his fork from his lips with trembling fingers. Her point was deafeningly loud and clear. She did not need him. She did not want him. He felt crushed. She had given him a chance to be by her side, and he had thrown it in her face… and now she was letting him know his mistake, in the most pointed and painful terms.

It took a long while for Matthew to muster enough courage to face her again after dinner. But as much as she was determined, so was he. He was determined to show her that he would not let her crush him, that he would not give her up, because he wanted to prove to her his worth and his apology, and so he re-entered the fray with a brave, smiling face.

Mary did her level best to be as dismissive as she politely could of him. Oh, she could see what he was doing… Trying to ingratiate himself back into her affections, and she'd be damned if she'd let him succeed so easily. How could he be so brash, in the face of how he had treated her and how they had argued, to laugh and smile with her now? But she could not know how the pretence ached, when everything inside him stung and cut from her manner.

When the Turk excused himself from their company, Matthew wondered at last if he was making headway. Napier lingered with them, still, but Mary had not shown _such_ interest in him, and… Matthew could only try with the utmost sincerity now.

"Was it fun to be back in the saddle?" he asked gently, purposefully softening his tone and expression that she might know there was no ill-will remaining, on his part at least.

They were in company, still, and Mary found herself with no option but to respond to his direct address. She only glanced quickly at him, shrugging elegantly.

"Yes! Although I'll pay for it tomorrow," she smiled more knowingly at Evelyn, who could understand her more on this point. Matthew took a deep breath, refusing to be rebuffed, and determined to offer her something to make amends for his folly.

"Would you ever – come out with me?" he asked tentatively, though in his heart he suspected it was too late for such a gesture. But… there was still so much between them, there _had_ been; how could she possibly ignore that? And so he alluded to it lightly, with, "Or aren't we friends enough for that?"

If he'd hoped she might relent to the admission of their friendship, if nothing more, he was mistaken. Mary found herself shocked at his boldness; how _dare_ he make such a joke of their relationship, and in front of Evelyn no less! Matthew registered the shock on her face, instantly regretting his poorly chosen words as she spluttered for an adequate and appropriate response under the circumstances.

"Well, I think it might –"

Thank God for Evelyn, she thought, as he cut over her before she was forced to think of an excuse. She could not grant Matthew anything, not now. And then she was more fortunate still, as from across the room Kemal inclined his head to beckon her, giving her an escape from this dreadful conversation entirely. "Excuse me," she breathed over Evelyn, walking away without so much as a look at either of the two men at her side and not a small amount of satisfaction at her power over the situation, to talk with whom she chose. _Not_ Matthew.

As Kemal beckoned her further, after a moment, into the adjoining music room, Mary hesitated. To go in there with him alone… What could he want? Her heart fluttered in anticipation and fear, knowing what could happen in seclusion from watchful eyes, what _had_ happened with Matthew and… But then she looked back, and saw Matthew watching, and she flared with anger at him again and at the fact that she had, again, thought of him. She needed no more provocation to steel herself to follow Kemal, knowing that with the door ajar and her family only here it was really ludicrous to think that anything might happen, as for one thing she would never allow it to. She took a deep breath and went in.

Mary was shocked, then, to find herself in moments being overwhelmed by Kemal's lips pressing fiercely against her own, and his hands clutching her face. She gasped, panicked, tried to back away but found herself trapped between him and the wall and… the sensation (though not wholly unfamiliar) filled her with fear and repulsion. She twisted her face and he broke the kiss, even as he remained so close to her that she felt she could barely breathe, he was too close, invasive, unwanted… and he wanted to… good Lord, he wanted to… She had never _thought_ he might take her actions as such an – invitation!

Trembling, she pleaded her innocence of awareness, though she wondered at the truth of it. Hadn't she known, hadn't she seen how he was attracted to her? She'd just never expected him to _act_, not without her desire, or consent, or… Then he tried to kiss her, again, and this time she pushed him forcefully away, her heart pounding as she threatened him with her father's wrath. Matthew… She walked quickly from the room, shaking, stomach churning. She'd _known_ his desire but… well… she knew it from the same expression in Matthew's eyes only he'd never, _never_ taken such liberty with her and…

She re-entered the drawing room and her eyes instantly searched him out but she could not see him. Not that she wanted him, now, she reminded herself – and made her way quickly to Sybil, who was sitting calmly on the plush settee. Mary sat beside her, hoping that to sit might stop her limbs from trembling. She swallowed, moistened her lips and looked around.

"Oh!" Sybil smiled at her, and Mary felt immediately put at ease. "I thought you'd disappeared for a moment. We seemed to be dropping thick and fast, with Cousin Matthew going as well!"

Mary frowned. "What do you mean, with Cousin Matthew going as well?" Not that she cared. She _didn't_ care. She didn't want to see any man, just now, let alone Matthew. She just… wanted to know, that was all.

"He suddenly claimed a terrible headache and excused himself," Sybil shrugged, then leaned towards her sister with a more conspiratorial whisper. "I think he was trying to escape from Edith, actually. But don't tell anybody that!"

She giggled lightly, and Mary chuckled anxiously in return, worrying with a sick feeling that she knew exactly why Matthew had left. Hadn't she given him reason enough? Oh, but he'd deserved it, she must remember that, only… she didn't feel much satisfaction in her actions, now.

* * *

After having successfully avoided Kemal for the rest of the evening, Mary retired to bed feeling the weight lift off her shoulders. In truth, after their encounter he hadn't attempted to speak to her again and Mary was desperately grateful for it. Perhaps he was not so ungentlemanly as she'd thought for a moment, and had been wise enough to take her threats to heart.

She was quiet as Anna readied her for bed, and when at last she was ready she crawled beneath the covers. But she was far too restless to sleep, with the events and conversations and expressions of the evening circling her mind relentlessly, and so she picked up the novel from her bedside table in the hope that it might distract her.

Luckily, she had only started it a few days before, and had not had the time or inclination to read it much since. She felt that she would need its length, to engage her thoughts more productively and pleasantly and to settle her enough to eventually sleep. For an hour, she read, and then another, and still her mind raced. Another hour, and she was beginning to feel a pleasant drowsiness at least and then… her bedroom door opened without warning.

She looked up, startled, and when Kemal appeared within her very bedroom she leapt from her bed, tugging the eiderdown off to cover herself, clutched protectively against her chest. She was in her – nightgown, and he, only a dressing gown – Her heart pounded with fear, all pretence of tiredness vanished at her shock.

He would not leave. She tried, he argued, she would scream, but it wouldn't make a difference, someone would come and then –

"We'd be ruined if they even knew we'd had this conversation!" she spluttered, realising that she had only proven his point. She swallowed, and edged back as he moved towards her. They were in her bedroom, barely clothed; not even Matthew had seen her – _Matthew!_ She riled in irritation at herself, that her first thought was again of him, even in the face of _this_. Would she expect him to protect her? What a ludicrous thought. She shook her head and glared at Kemal. "Let alone if we –"

"Don't worry," he stepped forwards, lowering his head in a gesture of trust, though, _really_… "You can still be a virgin for your husband."

Mary's eyes widened and without thinking she said, "Don't be ridiculous, it isn't that, I'm – oh…" she trailed off helplessly as she realised what she had just admitted, her gut twisting anxiously as his lips turned up into a wicked smile.

"I see," he said quietly, taking a few slow steps towards her. Mary backed away, only there was nowhere left to go as she felt her bed behind her… He closed in, invading her personal space, and she held the eiderdown as a barrier between them. "And who is your lover?" he murmured. "He is a fool to not be here, to not be beside you every moment…"

Mary opened her mouth to reply but she had no defence, and he was closer still… "It cannot be my friend, Mr. Napier, for he would have told me I'm sure," Kemal continued to wonder. "Mr. Crawley, then –"

"I don't know why you should assume that!" Mary snapped defensively, indignation flaring at his assumption. How dare he assume that her choice of lover was so limited, that she might not attract any man she wished! And _he_ wanted her, so evidently – she felt a momentary rush of confidence at the thought; that it was _not_ Matthew alone who desired her, that for all this impudent man knew she had the power to attract any number of lovers – and she decided at once that it was a preferable feeling to fear, and so she indulged it, to recognise her own allure. She was powerful. She was desirable. It was _he_ who wanted _her_ – not the other way around – couldn't she use that to her advantage, as she had at the start with Matthew?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he calmed her softly, lifting a hand to her cheek. She held firm, setting her jaw and refusing to show her weakness. He carried on, and she held her breath. "Let us forget your lover, your _lovers_, I don't care – let it be us, just for tonight, and –"

"Hush, please," she whispered, wanting him to just _stop_ talking and making her skin crawl with such words. But his lips were at her neck, now, and as she fell back onto her bed he covered her instantly, kissing, kissing, and Mary's hands pushing weakly at his shoulders were having not the slightest effect. "I'm not – what you think I am!"

It was a weak defence, she knew, as he paused his attentions to look at her, trapping her under the weight of his body and his gaze that made her tremble.

"My darling, you are _exactly_ what I think you are," he whispered, and his smile now had an unpleasantly knowing edge to it. He kissed her again, then her cheek, bringing his lips to her ear as Mary fixed her eyes on the canopy above her, trying desperately not to shudder. "You admitted yourself I am not the first, and I hardly think I shall be the last… You cannot refuse me."

As he nipped at her ear, Mary pressed her eyes closed for a moment and realised with a stab of uncomfortable clarity that he was right. She had no choice, he would not leave, it was going to happen and… she realised with a flash of confidence that she _did_ have a choice. She could… resist him, and he would take her anyway, and she had no doubt that to do so would result in a deeply, deeply unpleasant experience that would cripple her with distaste for goodness knew how long. Or… if it was to happen regardless… She took a deep breath. She could make the best of it, refuse him the satisfaction of claiming her as a prize if it were to be on her terms (for she was not a novice at this, not now) and maintain what shred of dignity she could salvage from it.

She repeated the thought in her head… She was desirable. She was wanted. She was powerful. She could take any man she wanted to, as she wanted, and _because_ she wanted to (she could not acknowledge it as a lie). And then she allowed her arms to drape around his neck as she kissed him back.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading. I'm sure you can appreciate that was a difficult chapter to write, and I admit to being glad it's over! As ever I'd love to know what you thought - and am terribly curious to know what you wonder will happen from here! Thank you :)_

_ETA. I don't normally do this, but I just want to justify this chapter. I'm very aware that it's probably not what most of you wanted to happen. To be very honest it's not exactly what I wanted to happen! AU though this is, however, I couldn't justify to myself why it wouldn't. I hope it's very clear that it's not what Mary wanted or intended to happen either. It's like Doctor Who and fixed points... Pamuk was always going to go to her bedroom, because he's a predator. No matter what Mary had done (she gave him a firm rebuffal when his intention was clear!), he was going to go there and do what he wanted. The only thing that could have stopped that might have been interference from Matthew, who would've felt he couldn't publicly do so without making his relationship with Mary obvious (which would be socially terrible) and, with how things had gone, he felt would have been unwelcome. Anyway - that was how I saw it. And this IS an M/M story, it will take a sharp offshoot from canon from this point, and it will have a happy M/M ending. So I hope you can understand why this chapter needed to happen and will bear with me through it!  
_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _Hello!_

_I'm really kind of overwhelmed by the variety of responses to the previous chapter. I knew it would be unpleasant, and hard, and I'm so incredibly thankful to everyone who's sticking with me! Ultimately this story is an AU - to me that means, changing one thing (in this case M/M's 1x02 relationship) and taking it from there. The characters and how I believe they would respond is leading me, rather than how I'd like them to respond - which would lead us to a very different story :P So, thank you so, so much.  
_

_Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me this week, as my energy just sapped for some reason and so this has taken me longer than expected. Thank you, and as ever to EOlivet who's also made me a GORGEOUS banner for it :) :)  
_

_Enjoy...!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Matthew awoke on Sunday morning with a pounding headache. It had not dissipated from the evening before.

For a moment, he lay and wondered whether he'd dreamed it all. But as the dream refused to fade and the pain lingered freshly as an ache in his chest, he accepted that it was memory. Mary's coldness towards him… Their argument… How poorly he'd tried to smooth it over, how little she had _let_ him try.

He then spent almost half an hour, his eyes screwed tight shut against the world, wishing fretfully that somehow it was possible to turn back the clock. They _had_ been friends, they _had_ been happy, and then he'd been stupid and ruined it all… If he only thought, tried, _wished_ hard enough… but that was a dream, as well. Where they were to go from here, he didn't know.

As Molesley helped him dress (Matthew realised with a start that just lately it had stopped seeming so odd. He was used to it, this routine, now) he was quiet and pensive. Over breakfast, he was little better; chewing his toast and sipping his tea with little comment on anything. He couldn't decide how he felt. A treacherous part of him still longed for Mary; to go and see her and try, _try_ again to say he was sorry… but he didn't want to be made a fool out of when she rejected him.

"How do you feel this morning, dear?" Isobel asked when she could bear his moody silence no longer. His hasty departure the evening before had left her wondering, rather.

He glanced up and shrugged. "Alright I suppose. Better after a decent sleep." It was a lie, but his mother didn't need to know that.

"I'm glad. At least you've another day to shake it off," she smiled encouragingly.

"There's that." He frowned distractedly, taking the small envelope from a silver tray that Molesley suddenly presented beside him. They never had post on a Sunday, and certainly not before church… Sliding his thumb under the seal, he tried to divert attention from his own worries. "What about you," he asked, unfolding the small handwritten note and scanning it quickly. "Are you planning on seeing – my God!"

"Heavens, what on earth is it?" Isobel looked up sharply at Matthew's loud exclamation, to see him white as a sheet and staring wide-eyed at the note. "Matthew?"

"He's – dead," Matthew choked out, his voice barely audible. "The – the Turkish – diplomat. He's… dead. During the night, I don't know, I – God."

"Oh how awful!"

Matthew continued to stare blankly down at the hastily scrawled words before him. _Dead_. For all he'd… hated the way the man had looked at Mary, hated _him_, the way Mary had looked and flirted and laughed with him he'd… never wished him _dead_! And now cold tendrils of guilt curled into his belly. How badly he'd thought of him, how resentful he'd been and how low his opinion had been of him and now… this. He swallowed and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I wonder how it happened. Perhaps the family will be at church, but – well, I wouldn't blame them if they don't feel up to it. What a – horrible thing to happen." He shivered.

* * *

As it happened, most of the family weren't at church. Matthew cast his eyes around the little building, and saw only the Earl in his usual place. He shifted restlessly throughout the sermon, unable to concentrate in the slightest, to the point of his fretful fidgeting earning him more than one reproachful glare from his mother.

The moment the service was over, Matthew muttered his excuses and eased out through the press of church-goers, finding Robert standing just outside the gateway where he dutifully nodded his greetings to those who walked by.

"Cousin Robert, good morning – I got your note," he said, moving to stand beside the Earl whose expression was weary and drawn.

"Oh – good. It's all been rather a shock."

"I can only imagine." Matthew shook his head a little. It still seemed so hard to take in, after the man had appeared so vibrant and vivacious and, well, _alive_ only hours before. "I don't suppose there's any idea yet –"

"No. But it all seems – well, innocent, I'm glad to say. Thomas, poor chap, discovered him taking the tea up this morning."

"God, how rotten. If I'm honest I wasn't sure whether to expect you here this morning – I'm sure you could've excused yourself, under the circumstances." Though of course, Matthew remembered, no-one else knew yet – but the family must be in shock, for it to have happened under their own roof, so suddenly…

Robert smiled weakly. "Well as you see, I'm here alone. Cora and the girls didn't feel up to it, and I don't blame them."

Matthew frowned gently, and waited a moment before he replied, wondering over the sense of his next words but they slipped out before he could stop them, his memory of bitterness rising once more.

"No, I'm sure. I thought – Mary seemed rather struck by him."

As Matthew's lips pursed in annoyance (and only a little stab of guilt at still thinking badly of the man), his older cousin imperceptibly winced. Quietly, he watched Matthew, thinking carefully about his response.

"Did you?" Of course he'd seen, they'd _all_ seen. But now, as Matthew glanced up with bitterness etched across his expression, Robert couldn't help the barest hint of a knowing smile. "I know she flirted with him rather a lot. And I know, too, that she spent a good deal of the evening looking for your reaction."

Matthew looked up sharply, and disbelievingly, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I don't think so –"

"Matthew…" Robert sighed, lifting a hand to the younger man's shoulder. "I thought – forgive me, but we all thought that you and Mary were getting on rather better, lately." He spoke slowly, and carefully, mindful of keeping his distance. The last thing he wanted to do was to upset things between his heir and his eldest daughter further, but… they had all begun to hope, truthfully, and he didn't want this friction between them to tear into a rift if it could be repaired now.

"We were," Matthew eventually shrugged, and took a breath before continuing sadly, his shoulders dropping in miserable resignation. "And then we… had an argument, and I was very – stupid."

Robert nodded slowly. "I see. Look – why don't you come up, later on. If Mary's about – I'm sure it would brighten her mood to see you."

"I don't know about that."

"Well. I don't know what you argued about, or what the state of things between you was before, but – we're all a bit shaken up just now. Think about it, Matthew, won't you."

* * *

He did think about it. He thought about it long and hard, and was glad to learn of his mother's plan to spend the day with a neighbour she'd promised to look in on as it gave him the solitude to do so. Warmed by the fire in the sitting room, he removed his jacket and loosened his tie and collar, and settled comfortably onto the settee with a brandy and a heavy sigh. Unusually, he took his luncheon in there as well, and when he looked so despondent and fretful Mrs. Bird could not find it within herself to make any suggestion against it.

It still ached, the way she had treated him. And while he had supposed already that her exaggerated flirtations were for his benefit, he had never thought... He swallowed heavily. Had she provoked him so that he would fight for her? To Mary's eye, he had slighted her to spend the day with Edith (God, he really was an idiot). He had let her go, or he had pushed her away – and so she had taken herself away. Had he made any move to show her she was wrong to do so? If he had, it had not been enough. Gentle smiles and too-late offers of friendship did not, _could_ not, repair the damage he had done – and he had known that.

And now the man she had turned to instead had died. What an awful thing, and how cut up she must be. To experience such a thing in one's own home, so unexpectedly… Well, it would be horrible for anyone but Mary had been hurting already and… God, the man had _died_. He'd been so healthy and now… Matthew shuddered. Everything was so fragile and delicate, nothing was sure, nothing was steadfast.

He sat up straighter on the settee, then leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees and frowned into the guttering flames of the fireplace. When he thought of Mary, even now, he felt an ache deep within his being, whether it was anger or passion or pain. It was sharp and exhilarating and terrifying and _exciting_ and… he brought to mind his surety, his conviction of only two days previously, that he loved her. He'd been on the very point of proposal, he'd been ready to give his life to her, he _had_ given… so much of himself to her already. Was he really prepared to throw that aside, to let slide the chance to _try_, simply because he'd been an ass and Mary had reacted in hurt? Could he blame her, and would he let her suffer from it now when she all she needed was comfort?

No.

Resolutely, he stood up, paced back and forth across the room once and tugged his jacket back on. With a cursory shout to Molesley to let him know he was going out, he left the house and strode through the chill of the darkening winter afternoon towards the Abbey. And as he went, the more his determination grew that he would do whatever he needed to – no, whatever _Mary_ needed him to – to make things right with her now.

As he approached the big house, and crossed the gravelled driveway before the heavy door, he saw it swing open and a figure step out, hunched against the cold. It took him only a moment to realise it was Mary, in the same instant that she looked up and saw that it was him.

_Matthew_.

All morning – all day – Mary had felt numb. Too numb to think, or feel, or process what had happened. She had shied away from it, from any consequences and ramifications and the fact that Kemal Pamuk had been in her bed and her arms and had _died_… It was too much. She could not think about what she'd done, for it was too painful to do so, and though she had had bath after bath that morning (Anna had wordlessly understood) she had not been able to scrub away the feeling of him on her very skin, crawling and pervading and inescapable. He was _dead_, and she felt he would haunt her in some way or other forever, and so she had shut her mind to it and everyone.

She had not allowed herself to think about Matthew, because to do so would have forced her to acknowledge the truth of her feelings for him that had pricked at the edges of her conscience (because it was _not right, not right without him_…). How could she not think of him, when he was all she had known… And now she had known another and – it had been so different, and now she saw Matthew before her and how his expression softened so tenderly as he saw her and he was so _familiar_ and welcome.

"Mary! It's freezing and getting dark, you shouldn't be going out now –" he admonished her softly as he drew up to her.

She blinked, her lips parted. Why wasn't he angry? Had he forgotten the evening before, how cruelly she'd treated him, how awful she'd been?

"I – needed some air, I couldn't bear it inside anymore," she weakly explained. They stood before each other on the doorstep, unsure and tentative, all their anger driven away and exhausted by the harsh reality of life.

"I'm sure it's been awful," Matthew shook his head. She looked so shaken and he felt every last shred of bitterness drain away. How could he be angry with her, like this? What did anything else matter, when life balanced on a knife-edge – where was the time to be angry? His hand came out a little towards her, just a little, as if he were afraid to startle her. "Mary, I'm – so sorry."

"Oh God, don't be!" she cried suddenly and stepped towards him, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest as she felt some need to physically realise his presence. His chest, so warm, and… she could feel his heart beating even through his coat, _alive_… "Why should _you_ be sorry?" She stared at him as though it were a genuine question, as if she didn't understand, her eyes wide and questioning and pleading.

Matthew frowned gently as his hands clasped her arms lightly in the most delicate of embraces. "Because I – I've been so stupid, I was wrong – darling you had every right to be angry and now _this_ and – I'm so sorry. I'm here now, if there's anything I can do… Please do ask, Mary, and whatever I can do to make things better I will do it…"

As his speech went on they'd somehow drawn closer and closer together and his last words were whispered against the soft tendrils of hair that escaped from under her hastily pinned on hat. She buried her face in his neck, hands still clasping at his chest as they instinctively came together and… a sharp, pervading, swelling warmth burst through the walls of Mary's numb defence and a distraught sob shuddered from her throat.

He was whispering to her and he was _sorry_ and he wanted to make things better and he was there for her and… it overwhelmed Mary. His arms came around her more fully and she wept, and realised that… Matthew was _it_. He was _sorry_ where Pamuk had never apologised to her once, despite the things he had done and now he never _could_… Matthew's only thought was of her, in spite of whatever he was feeling and Pamuk's only thought had been for _himself_, never for her… Matthew wanted to help her, to be there for her, where Pamuk had only wanted to take her. Matthew was _alive_ and real and here and her heart burst with thankfulness and affection.

Trembling from the cold and the force of the emotion unlocking itself within her breast, she pulled her face up and looked at him, and realised that he was everything to her. When he looked at her with those eyes, that softness, when he took her in his arms… Mary realised with a chilling thrill that it – _he_ – was all she wanted. Her life played out ahead of her – had she really believed that she could share everything she had with Matthew, and then one day marry another? How could she possibly, how could she relinquish _him_?

Heavens, she had been stupid. So terribly, terribly stupid and she knew now without a doubt that there was no other man she could ever want to make love to but Matthew. And then her own thought caught up with her and she stiffened in his arms, her eyes wide and shocked with realisation. Oh, she had convinced herself that the pleasure she took from Matthew was for her body alone, the way he touched her and kissed her and fulfilled her but… it was more than that. It was _him_. If it was sensation alone, could she not have pretended so to herself last night? Would she not have felt on some level the same bliss, rather than the distaste which seemed to linger in every pore of her skin? But with Matthew she… she…

"Will you come with me?" she whispered somewhere against his cheek, which was cold from the wind. Her breath warmed it, and his arms warmed her. It was suddenly startlingly clear in her mind, what the only thing was that could rid her of last night's displeasure. The only thing that could heal her, cleanse her, make her right again and make her feel _whole_ was… Matthew, because she – she _wanted_ him and she – loved him.

"Alright," he nodded, understanding some instinctual need in her eyes that he could not argue with.

She smiled tremulously and took his hand, bringing him back inside the house. He followed. And when she whispered to him quickly to wait in the grandness of the hall, he waited, alone, while she hurried upstairs and flitted in and out of his view between the arched columns lining the gallery. And when she leaned over and beckoned to him, he went after her, his pulse racing as he wondered what she was doing. But he did not question it. He was going to make this right, for her, for them both.

Mary glanced cautiously around as Matthew appeared at the end of the corridor and walked quickly towards her. She knew the servants were busy readying things for the evening and so were out of the way, and Anna would hardly be surprised if she came to find Mary's door locked to give her some solitude and quiet. It had been a trying day for everyone, and so her absence for an hour or so would be perfectly excusable. She ushered him through the door and went in behind him, turning the key and leaving it in the lock to be sure.

Matthew looked around him curiously. "Mary, where –"

"My bedroom," she whispered, twisting her hands anxiously together. Her voice was shaky and tearful and Matthew turned back to her, his lips were graced by a trembling smile.

"Oh." It was her bedroom. His heart thudded loudly in his chest and every limb seemed to tingle. He blinked nervously. "I thought – I thought you might be showing me where he'd – no, that would be -"

"Hush!" She silenced him effectively with a hesitant kiss, brushing her lips to his, gasping as familiar pleasure lanced through her body instantly. Then it wavered as she remembered and – she thought of – _no_, now there was only Matthew in her arms and he was pure (God, so _pure_ and she was – she couldn't finish the thought and blocked it out) and familiar and warm…

She heard his heavy coat fall to the floor, and before his arms could come around her again she pushed off his jacket too.

"Mary…" he whispered against her ear, his lips and his breath tickling her and making her shudder. She tightened her arms around him. "Is this really –"

"Yes," she replied fiercely without hesitation. She didn't _care_, whether it was wise or possible or whatever else, she needed him and _this_ to heal everything. "Please, Matthew…"

Her plea, and _this_, was everything he needed. An apology, an assurance, a promise… and as he realised more fully their situation – her bedroom, the door was locked, they were fully alone – a deep sigh of desire shuddered from his body. And then his… lips, and his hands, were warm on her skin as they sealed their assent with a deep, knowing kiss, more erotic and more languid and intense than any they had yet shared.

She tugged him to the foot of her bed where they stood together, wired with anticipation and awareness. He allowed her to undress him, allowed her to lead them, allowed her to take them at her own pace as he understood that it was for _her_. And she knew it, and with shaking hands bared his torso to her view. She traced lightly over his chest in wonder. His skin was pale, paler than – Pamuk's, and covered with a scattering of blonde hair that she curled her fingers in, and which trailed down his belly and… lower. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, and she could see his skin tremble, so beautifully… and she pressed a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses below his throat as her hands skimmed down to his belt. He moaned quietly, and her lips dragged to his bare shoulders, which flexed as his hands moved to grip her waist, steadying himself. As she finally succeeded in her task and pushed down his trousers over his hips, watching as he kicked them free, her forehead resting against his chest, she choked back a dry sob of pleasure at the sight of him. She reached between them to touch him, heard his breath catch in his throat, and looked up to see his eyes which were dark and glittering with adoration. It was _Matthew_… She drank in his vision, reminding herself, reassuring herself that this time it was _him_ in her bedroom and he was not a dream; he was here and alive and _hers_.

He waited, breathless, as she stepped back and shimmied as quickly as she could from her own clothes, every last scrap of them, because she _wanted_ to for him. She saw his expression slacken as he saw her, helpless in the face of her beauty. She saw his throat flex as he swallowed, and his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and the motion only aroused her further, not like… not like… _him_. And when he finally touched her (her body ached and flamed at the slightest touch from his fingers, it did not recoil, not for him) it was with such a reverence and tenderness that she felt her heart might burst.

This was right, it was so right, and as she yielded herself into his arms as he lowered her gently to the softness of her bed, she could not look away from the arrestment of his precious gaze. And then they kissed, somehow slowly but with an undeniable urgency, and she writhed up against him as she welcomed his tongue in her mouth and everything was _right_. She placed her hand over his own and guided it to her breast, where at last he could feel her properly, and he lavished her with such affection and attention that she felt she might break apart under his hands even now. His lips followed, and his tongue touched her breast, then his whole mouth as he gave in to his every desire with a throaty moan of passion, and she clutched at his shoulders. If she looked down she could see them, his shoulders… bare and strong and flexing as he moved, his lips searching her body, his golden hair tousled as she sank her fingers into it. His lips, tongue, hands, shifting down her body, and her skin tingled in both unpleasant memory and anticipation and then glorious fulfilment as everything became _Matthew_. And when his tongue touched her – _there_ – she bit her lip to stifle her moan as her hips jerked up towards him, rather than recoiling away.

And he did not stop. The sensation… She tried to ease up a little to look down, to see his golden hair moving between her thighs, to _know_… it was him, and only him, _only_ Matthew, and unrestrained pleasure such as she had never felt coursed through her body. Collapsing back against the pillows as her hips writhed to push herself against his mouth, she grasped in delight at the sheets and he just… carried on. She did not expect him to, but he did, and then his… fingers, and she _felt_ his groan and his breath and – still, more, claiming her in a storm of fire, and quicker, his mouth and his hand searching her and worshipping her until she succumbed and thrashed helplessly in searing release.

The next thing she knew when she at last opened her eyes was his darling face above her, his eyes blue and his pale skin flushed with colour, and his beautiful voice whispering to her, "God, Mary…"

Her heart ached with adoration and blissful satisfaction, but still her body craved a deeper cleansing from the memory which stained her still. Gently, she pushed his shoulders until he lay on his back, and she knelt above him. She leant down and kissed him, felt his solid chest brush against her breasts and his back arch up as her fingers grasped him. This was new, and she _wanted_ to, she wanted _him_. This time she was in control, he was under her spell, and yet they were both utterly complicit in her dominance. She eased down, curling her back to reach him with her lips, tasting, licking along the length of him as he shuddered and gasped. Oh, he was perfect, and she was thankful beyond words that this, at last, was entirely between _them _and them alone.

Before long he could take no more and tugged at her shoulders, pleading with her to stop and let him – let _them_ – and she answered him by straddling his hips and sinking slowly down, their loud gasps mingling in the still air, warmed by their bodies and their breath. There was no pain, it was _Matthew_ (she opened her eyes to see him and remember, remember, it was _Matthew_ filling her and pulling her hips against him), and they _fit_.

She rocked over him, against him, and he against her, in perfect unison. Though it was hard to do so, she kept her eyes open, watching his face which creased in pleasure, his eyes shut and lips parted as their hips flung together again and again. Faster… More desperate, more needy, more _raw_… His hands gripping tighter, leaving marks imprinted on her skin and she _loved him_… And then she remembered again, and faltered.

Matthew's eyes flew open but she pressed a finger to his lips, and kissed him before manoeuvring together until he lay above her, still deeply within her and her legs now around his waist. This was how it had been, how it must be now, as he made everything _right_. And she smiled, and leaned up to kiss him, and they began to move again. He drove against her and she welcomed him, urged him on, thrust her own hips up to meet him. Again, she forced her eyes open, and it was _Matthew_… Her own, her love, the only one. _The only one_. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled his head down to kiss him, and his own arms curled under her shoulders and they clung together, flung together with louder gasps and quicker breaths and harder thrusts that merged into one long agony of bliss that tipped Mary over the edge, her skin burning and body clenching in ecstasy which sent Matthew hurtling over his own precipice of release.

She clung to him tightly, feeling his chest press against hers and… there – his heartbeat. Rapid, racing, constant… _alive_. His breath warmed her neck. His fingers stroked against her skin, embracing her, loving her, still… _alive_.

"Matthew, darling," she breathed unconsciously, and he raised his head to look at her. There was such adoration in his eyes, such pure satisfaction and contentment and fulfilment and nothing was wrong, everything was right, as he smiled breathlessly down at her only… she realised with a sharp, sick twist in her gut that nothing was right, no matter how hard she tried to believe it was.

Her hand covered her mouth but he was already stroking his fingers along her hot cheek, his lips moving and –

"My darling Mary, I… love you," he whispered.

A sob broke from her and she curled away, away from his darling, unknowing eyes and his innocent words and smile. He was pure and she was defiled and had tainted him with it and… wrong, she had been so wrong, and he had apologised with such heartfelt honesty to her for really _nothing_ at all and _what had she done_?

"I'm – sorry," she gasped, wriggling away from him and curling her shoulders defensively as another sob wracked her body. "I'm so sorry."

Matthew sat up, worried, uneasiness pooling in his belly. He felt suddenly cold, and clammy. "What is it?" he asked, trying to quash the tremor in his voice. His hand lay softly upon her shoulder and she wrenched it away. She didn't _deserve_ him –

"I can't," she sobbed brokenly. "I – can't, Matthew, I'm – sorry, please –"

"Mary –"

"Oh God!" She sat up and hugged her arms around her knees, as if curling into a ball might protect her from him and herself and the world and… _Pamuk, _or his memory, that she knew would cover her forever.

A worried frown creased Matthew's brow, and he shuffled onto his knees. He moved his hand close to Mary, not quite touching her, he didn't understand… She'd wanted this, she'd led him here, she'd encouraged him with every breath and touch and he knew, he _knew_ that she had chosen him now and…

"Mary please, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded with her, unknowing that guilt wracked her very soul, crushing her under its weight. "Please – I'm sorry, if you – regret what we've done, we can – make it alright, darling – we can –"

"He was _here_!" her anguished exclamation was unconsciously screamed, muffled into her knees and the sheets around them, echoing into the suddenly ice-like air.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you ever so much for reading :) Very curious to know what you think, it honestly means the world to me and excites me so much to see how you think it's unfolding. Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _Here we are, here we are, here we are again!_

_Once again I'm bowled over by the variety and sincerity of your responses, thank you so much. I really am finding it utterly fascinating to see how people are responding so differently to this fic. I have so many people to thank for listening to me witter on about this chapter, and for showing an interest in it, so I'm sending you all a great big hug and cookie (you'll be needing it). And especially to EOlivet for her insight, enthusiasm and polish!  
_

_I'd say "enjoy", but... here we go!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Matthew stilled, his breath trapped in his chest as her anguished exclamation rang around the room, which seemed to close stiflingly in on him, on them.

"What?" His voice wavered, small and yet deafening in the sudden, still quiet. "I… who? Who was here, Mary?"

Her breath hitched in a loud sob, and she whispered bitterly against her knees, unable to look at Matthew's face and see the doubt and hurt beginning to creep into his expression.

"You must – know who," she wrought out. "The – he – Kemal."

"Pamuk?" Matthew asked, trying to understand, failing, the blood in his veins chilling. "You mean – he was here, at the house, I don't – understand…" Why was she thinking of that now, of all times, when they'd just… when they were like _this_… He thought they'd been making things better, forgetting all that, driving it away.

"No!" she shook her head desperately. She felt somehow as though she were splintering and breaking apart, out of control, knowing that her words must crush him and destroy everything between them and yet utterly unable to bear his ignorance, his innocence. She fisted her fingers into the bedsheets as if it would be some sign, some clue, some allowance to her not having to _say_ the terrible words. "I'm so – sorry, Matthew –"

He swallowed heavily, finding his throat suddenly dry and tight. As every indication from her screamed at a possibility that he couldn't, _couldn't_ think about – his mind repelled the idea, tried to silence it but now the seed was there it was impossible to shake – he became terribly aware of his nakedness, and Mary's beside him. Trembling, he pulled the sheets to cover his lower body then reached out to touch her arm, wincing as she flinched away from him.

"You can't – Mary, tell me you don't mean –" His voice shook, pleading with her, desperately seeking the slightest sign of denial, that he was wrong, mistaken, he _had_ to be, she _couldn't_… He felt sick. He could hardly breathe, the sight of her distraught sobbing sending withering chills down his spine. "God, _please_, not – _here_, not like – this…"

As his voice trailed off to a desperate, whispered plea… Mary could only nod helplessly, and watch, and weep, as Matthew's hand clamped over his mouth and he seemed to withdraw impossibly into himself, leaning over as his other hand sought purchase to steady himself.

It hurt. It _hurt_, so much, as Matthew tried to cling desperately to any shred of disbelief he could muster, but when Mary could not say that he was wrong… he felt it shrink and burn away into his gut, replaced with cold, hard reality. He shuddered, hot tears stinging the back of his eyes, lips and voice trembling as he looked at Mary through eyes narrowed in anguish. "You mean…" he whispered. "Oh God, Mary, everything – everything we've – you've – with _him_? In this – in this _bed_?" he gasped.

Again, the only response she could bear to muster was a small, helpless nod before wracking sobs of regret and disgust with herself overcame her. Unable to face the pain in Matthew's eyes as he hunched over on his knees, she buried her face in her arms.

Matthew pressed his face into his hands, trying to blot out the images that pounded relentlessly into his mind. Her… _Him_… Together, doing what they'd – _God_, the way he'd touched her, the way he'd – _kissed_ her, there, loved her… _Loved her_. When only hours before, in the darkness, in the night-time, _here_ and in her beautiful, naked arms the Turk had… A hot wave of nausea churned through his gut and he gasped for breath, before scrambling off and away from the bed (away from the wrenching thought of _them_), clutching the eiderdown around his middle as he couldn't bear for her to see him, not now.

"I'm – sorry," Mary whispered again, only desperate, useless apologies. "I'd never – _never_ meant to –"

She drew in a sharp breath as Matthew whirled to face her. There was one – _one_ chance he could cling to, still, sparked by her words though it made his heart clench in anger to think of it.

"Did he… force you?"

Looking into his wild, distraught, reddened eyes, Mary felt something slam shut within her heart as she realised that here was truly the point from which there was no coming back. She saw him, and knew that he could forgive her if… _If_…

But she had not _let_ herself be forced. She could never have done. For a moment she wished, she _tried_, to make the simple (it would be so, so easy…) affirmation pass her lips, but – it wouldn't be _right_, she had led him on enough already and hurt him with her games and –

"No…" It broke from her in a sob, as Matthew reeled physically back from the sheer force of everything that _'no'_ meant. She reached out a hand towards him; a futile gesture, she _felt_ a gulf crash open and a wall throw up instantly between them, irrevocable, impassable. She had lost him, she saw it in his tearful, anguished expression but still she tried, tried to claw back the distance, her voice broken and pleading. "But I – felt nothing for him, I never intended –"

"For God's sake that doesn't make it _alright_!" Matthew struggled to restrain the bitterness coursing through him, the pain, the – disgust, it was crippling him… Her excuses only made his heart twist more. "Don't insult me more by pretending that; something like this doesn't just – _happen_, Mary! My _God_, I –"

"Doesn't it?" she flung back desperately at him, wishing only that he could understand, that she could explain, and riling in helpless retaliation to his outburst. They couldn't control these things, no matter what he thought, no matter how much anyone might wish to – she hadn't been able to! "What about the first time _we_ were – _together_, Matthew, had you intended that?"

Her eyes widened as she saw him jaw drop and then clench, his limbs visibly trembling in distress, the full cruelty (however unintended, for _truly_ she hadn't meant to liken them like that) of her words hammering home like a blow.

Pain wracked through Matthew like fire and he turned away, unable to see her, unable to think, pressing a hand over his mouth to hold back the shuddering sob that wrenched from the pit of his stomach. To throw their relationship into that light, to have given herself to another (in this very room, that very bed), their limbs entangled and hot and damp from sweat and kisses and… then she had taken the same from him, had led him to think… to believe…

"…how _could_ you?" he gasped wretchedly. And then the very thought overwhelmed him with such a sick feeling of horror, of betrayal, of shame and revulsion that he scrambled to Mary's vanity and vomited pitifully into the washbowl there, shoulders heaving with his ragged breaths.

Mary stared at him in a transfixed sort of horror before her vision blurred with her own tears and she could not bear to see him so distressed any longer. But then she could only hear his sharp, gasping sobs and painful retching and it was all her fault, she'd broken him, broken herself, broken _them_ with her stupidity and weakness… and darling, darling Matthew didn't deserve any of it.

"I'm so, so sorry Matthew," she wept again, lifting her head to see his resting weakly on his arm across the dresser, his upper body trembling, and her heart ached fiercely with regret and sorrow and love, and… _Love_, she loved him so much and her heart was breaking… "Please, I know I've been – terribly stupid and I've hurt you but I wanted to make it right, Matthew, you have to know I – love you –"

His head snapped up and he stared at her through pained, narrow eyes that filled with such piercing anguish that Mary drew in a sharp breath.

"How… _dare_ you insult me with that, now, you… _God_, Mary." He felt it like a blow to his gut, the words that he'd whispered to her in adoration and all sincerity only minutes (it felt like a lifetime longer) ago whipping back from her lips to slap him in the face. "For pity's sake, you must… give me a moment… please," he rasped.

She pressed her lips together, not daring to allow herself to speak as she would surely only make it worse (if that were even possible now), and blinked up at the canopy of the bed to escape his condemning gaze. Silent tears traced a path down her cheeks as she lowered her head once more to her knees, gradually hearing the quiet sounds of him moving, dressing, breathing… closing himself away from her. _As he deservedly should_, she thought bitterly.

When she heard his voice, faint and weak, again and dared to look up, he was re-clothed and standing by the door. She had lost him; something in his manner and his eyes now was like a stranger, and the notion cut her more deeply than she had thought possible.

"I need to get out," he said simply, not looking at her.

Mary nodded and, realising that his face was turned away from her for more than the reason she believed (and knew to be true, that he was too disgusted to look at her, how could he not be?), slowly uncurled herself from the bedlinen and pulled on her clothes, forgoing the bother of her corset for now. Anna would understand whatever excuse she gave.

Glancing at the clock, she thanked the heavens for at least one scrap of fortune, pitiful recompense though that was.

"There's half an hour before the dressing gong," she told him, sounding limp and defeated. "The servants will be busy and my family won't bother moving until it does, now, so…"

Matthew nodded. She slipped past him to the door and said, "I'll tell you that it's clear."

He waited as she went to the corner of the gallery, looking along each corridor, over to the other side and down below into the hall. He watched her impassively, feeling a numbing sensation spread throughout his body. He couldn't think, couldn't hurt anymore. The wound had seared and he could hardly feel anything at all.

When she finally beckoned, he retraced his journey from only a short hour or so earlier, just as quickly, his heart thudding in his chest just as fiercely and yet he felt like a different man.

"Goodbye Mary," he whispered coldly as he passed her, without slowing, without looking at her. And as he descended the stairs then crossed the hallway he did not look back, or up, and so did not see her face crumple in despair before her hands came up to hide it.

The cold of the winter's night hit him like a blow as he stepped outside, and he welcomed it. He walked, quicker, away from that place, away from her, away from everything it held, until he was almost running through the grounds to escape it and the pain. But crushing weight fell upon his chest, he could not escape the image of her (and him) soldered into his mind's eye, until at last his wretched sobs were hindering his breath too sharply and he was forced to stop… where he wilted against a tree, sinking down with his head in his hands, the full agony of despair bearing down on him as he wept bitterly for his stupidity and loss.

* * *

Mary couldn't have said what drew her there, to that room. Her every attempt at closing the wound had failed, and she wondered if it ever would. She sat, despondently, staring at the bed… The bed she had helped carry him to, the bed he _should_ never have left at all. In some odd way, she found herself almost envious of him – that he was spared all this, the pain, the consequence, the injury he had dealt to others. Now instead it lay squarely upon her shoulders, and had wounded Matthew, and… she could not begin to think how to deal with it.

Staring at the bed did not help.

Carson startled her when he came in, to see that everything was as it should be. Suddenly craving a moment's company after an evening sinking in silent misery since Matthew had left, Mary got up and paced a little (action was better than inaction, always, she thought).

"Life can be terribly unfair, can't it," she reflected miserably.

Carson sighed. "It certainly can."

She sniffed. "Everything seems so golden one minute, then turns to ashes the next…" They had been together. They had been happy. It had been perfect, everything was perfect, in his arms and then… it had vanished like mist in the sun. "Can I ask you a question, Carson?"

When he nodded, she carried on with an elegant little shrug. "Have you ever felt your life was somehow slipping away – and there was nothing you could do to stop it?"

Of course he couldn't give her an answer. There _was_ no answer to her troubles, there could be none. Only for Matthew to forgive her, only… how could he possibly? But dear Carson, without knowing a thing about it, he tried.

"I… think everyone feels that, at one time or another." He tried to smile sympathetically, and Mary shook her head as she tried to return it.

"The odd thing is I feel… for the first time, really, I understand what it is to be happy." Her lips trembled, and she began to shiver again, as the memory of Matthew's body entirely entwined with hers and his darling voice whispering his adoration against her ear made her chest tighten against the swell of emotion she felt. And as the memory broke down, degrading into his tear-stained, disbelieving, devastated face, her own voice broke with it as her throat choked with tears. "It's just that I know I won't be."

* * *

Emptiness consumed her, and as the days went by with no word from Matthew at all (her mother had bumped into his in the village, and he was ever so busy with work, so they said) she began to feel herself change. She hardened, and softened… Somehow both. Hardened her own feelings, she had to; softened her coolness to others (even Edith, if only a little). For she understood, now, how low a person could sink, and how it hurt, and there was enough in her life now to make her sad for her to cause any more sadness.

She ignored it at first, when her body would not behave as it should. Why should it? She had ruined it. Food was difficult to palette, tasting ashen in her mouth. Mary had never been one to believe in divine retribution but she wondered if this was it. She barely felt like the same person any more.

When Christmas came a few weeks later, and she'd not seen Matthew even once, she hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed. Of course she hadn't sought him out, what could she say to him? If he had come for dinner, how would she have faced him, after… everything? Her father had seen him once or twice, she knew that – but said nothing of how he was. If he was changed as she was, low, irritable, defeated. While she allowed herself to wallow (she had no energy to devote to productive, distracting pursuits), Matthew, she gathered, had thrown himself into his work and the estate, always at the cottages if he was anywhere besides his office, or somewhere, anywhere other than at the house. How she envied his occupation, his having somewhere to go every day!

They'd invited him for Christmas, of course, and Isobel. But according to her father he'd already commitments in Manchester, old friends, family, people he'd _want_ to spend his time with rather than them (her). Christmas was supposed to be a happy time, wasn't it? He certainly would not be happy having to smile through it in the same room as her, when he must think so, _so_ little of her. And yet she was miserable without him. But then she'd feel angry at herself for feeling so low, for what right did she have to? Hadn't she brought it on herself?

There was no way out, or none she could see. January came, a full month had passed, and then some. She'd hoped that perhaps with the new year, a new perspective… but, no. Once, then, he came up for dinner… She wondered if his mother had pushed him to it. He did not speak to her, not directly, he hardly even looked at her. Oh, but she looked at him… at the weary, tired circles under his eyes, his stiffened posture, tightened knuckles, pressed-closed lips in a tight smile, breathless voice. She looked at him, missed him, loved him… for he was still the same Matthew, still so upright and handsome (she saw it now more than she ever had allowed herself to before)… and it made her ill to think that she had thrown him aside, to lose him forever.

Her food was even more unpalatable than usual, and she was forced to claim a headache and an early escape as her body would not hold it.

Another week passed, and two days more, and she finally accepted that her inaction would get her nowhere – it would only destroy her. But how to reach him? For he would not speak to her, she was sure. And then she sought her father, and to her delight (though she felt sick with fear), Carson told her he was in the library with Mr. Crawley.

With nothing to lose (their relationship could hardly be worse), she hovered in the hallway a moment or two and went in.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt," she braced herself and wore a charming smile, clasping her hands anxiously together. "Are you very busy?"

Matthew peered studiously at a book which lay open in front of him, thankful that he was already standing so he didn't have to acknowledge her presence.

Her father smiled. "Actually we're just about finished, my dear. Was there something you wanted?"

She nodded. "There is. Could I speak with Cousin Matthew for a moment, Papa? That's all, in fact, please don't mind us."

While Matthew finally glanced at her, startled, Robert beamed approvingly.

"Of course. I'll leave you to it –"

"Actually I really should be going," Matthew cut in quickly, his tone hard and, Mary thought, concealing a note of panic. He stared somewhere near Mary's feet. "I've already had to decline an offer of dinner as I've promised Mother I'd –"

"Oh I'll only be a moment," Mary pushed in, still forcing that bright, pleasant smile to her lips while her stomach turned unpleasantly. She felt almost faint.

There was really no more excuse he could muster, at least not before Robert had bid him a hearty goodbye for now and promised to catch up with him very soon. Matthew nodded, swallowing with difficulty past the nervous lump forming in his throat. He was desperately uncomfortable, he'd been _alright_, alone, he'd numbed himself to it and he could not face her. He didn't _want_ to.

As the door closed behind the Earl, Matthew turned his back on Mary and wandered across to the window. She couldn't see his face any more, only his tense, rigid shoulders and his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"I have nothing to say to you," he muttered coldly. He couldn't bear to, it hurt too much, the stamped-down pain rising fiercely again in his chest, making his gut twist and his pulse race.

Mary's heart raced as well. He was _here_. She was talking to him. She could barely force the words from her lips but she _must_, she had no choice… He _was_ her only choice.

"Well that hardly matters," she said quietly, taking another deep breath and a single step towards him. "Because you see I have something I must say to you… and then I think you might."

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading, that alone means such a lot to me. Needless to say I'd love to know what you thought, and what you think - thank you! :)_

_(Also, SORRY MATTHEW, I love you, HUGS.)  
_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _Happy Monday!_

_Once again, thank you so much for all your reviews/favourites/alerts - I'm truly overwhelmed, and again truly fascinated to see how varying your responses are. It's incredibly inspiring!  
_

_Thanks to EOlivet as always for her polish, and... here we go!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Nine  
**

There was something so arresting and yet so vulnerable in Mary's tone that Matthew could keep his back to her no longer. He twisted around, without fully turning, blinking in confusion.

"What is it?" he asked warily, alerted on some level to the seriousness of… whatever it was.

Mary could only hold his eyes for a moment before her gaze dipped to somewhere around his knees. She'd anticipated this would be difficult but now he was here and he was looking at her and… she knew there was no going back.

"You see the thing is," her voice was careful, measured, practised. Her hands rubbed gently together. "We've not been – quite so lucky, this time, as we were. To avoid any… consequences."

Stiffening, Matthew slowly turned to face her, his eyes wide with sickeningly dawning comprehension. Her meaning was… unmistakeable, but…

He swallowed. "You can't mean…"

"I'm afraid so." She nodded, and ridiculously felt almost like smiling in her nervousness. But she didn't. She had said it, and… it was up to him, now.

Anxiously, she watched his reaction. It took him a moment, as his mind tried to swat away what she was telling him, what he knew to be true, what… he could not possibly ignore. A cold shiver rippled through him and he drew in a shaky breath, settling more steadily on his feet as his fingertips pressed together.

"I don't know what you mean by _we_," he eventually muttered derisively, defensively, "when we both know full well it may be nothing to do with me at all."

"Oh, Matthew!" Her plaintive, frustrated exclamation caused his head to raise sharply, and in his eyes Mary was shocked to see not loathing, not anger, but… sorrow. Fear. Disappointment. But this had built up and torn at her for too long, now, to be shy about it. "We both know just as much that that's not half so likely as –"

"Don't, Mary, please –"

"–as for it to be yours and even if that were the case, it would hardly matter seeing as he's – _dead_, Matthew!"

"For God's sake I know that!" he hurled back at her, and for a moment they stood, simmering, wary of each other.

Matthew was painfully aware of each breath trembling in and out of his body, of the pricking sickness in his gut, as every feeling he'd tried to ignore and drive out came flooding back. And on top of it all… _this_. Mary was… with child, and while he was horribly aware that he may be responsible (for her, for it, for all that had happened) he was equally, terribly aware that… he might not be. And yet… the expectation lay on him, for where else could it lie? An uncomfortable sense of helplessness settled on him with the unwanted weight of responsibility.

It was everything he'd been so very afraid of, and he felt in some sick way as though this was their punishment.

Very slowly, he licked his lips and looked at Mary (how it ached to do so, at every memory she conjured). "You're asking me to marry you," he said shakily.

Mary closed her eyes, and gave a slight shake of her head.

"I'm not asking anything of you," she breathed, and her eyes fluttered open again. "But you had a right to know."

There was a resigned weariness in everything about her, her tone and her expression and her very body, that Matthew now saw. After all, she'd had time to think about it, and accept it. Without needing it spelled out, they both knew what the alternative was. Scandal that would haunt the family for a generation or more, Mary outcast, hidden away and shunned from society, the innocent child consigned to a lifetime of paying for the mistakes of its parents.

It wasn't _fair_. None of it was fair, Matthew thought, as he turned bitterly away to the window to think.

If there was a chance that he had fathered the child Mary carried – in fact, there was no _if_ about that, he realised that with a sharp twist in his chest – then how could he possibly give her up to the punishment that would follow if he did nothing? How could he live with himself, as eventual head of this family, knowing what he may have subjected her to by his inaction if… the child were his? It might be – his son, his daughter (might, _might_), _God… _Could he throw that away, for the sake of bitterness and revulsion and a questionable _if_?

He passed a hand over his drawn face, realising as the devastating weight of acceptance descended into his chest, shortening his breath, suffocating him… that he could not. As he turned his face to look back over his shoulder, somewhere at the ground near her feet, Mary found herself straining to hear his barely audible murmur.

"Of course I'll marry you," he said.

It was the desperate, soul-deep sadness in his eyes when he finally looked up at her that broke Mary's will, and she swallowed back a sob. It was everything they had not wanted. A marriage of necessity and convenience, a marriage because they _had_ to, not because they wanted to. A marriage because there was no other choice. And yet… to marry was everything they had wanted, and only realised at the very worst of times.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling with heartfelt gratitude. And yet there remained this impossible distance between them, though they stood only feet apart, hands tensed and restless by their sides. She pressed her lips together and shook her head regretfully. "I know that you must despise me and I don't expect that you'd –"

"Oh, Mary…" he cut her off, and her lips closed. He blinked sadly at her, his eyes shining with tears that would not fall, not here, not in front of her again. "I don't think… I ever _could_ despise you."

No matter how he tried, he knew that he simply could not. Oh, he despised what she had done… How she had hurt him, toyed with him, used him – he could forget none of that. Nothing could lessen the dull ache of loss and pain, the sickening thought of what she had done with another and then with him, the sting of betrayal that had made him unable to bear being in the same room as her. But deep down he knew it only hurt _so_ much because… No, it hurt too much to think of, and he buried the feeling once more.

Taking a physical step and a deep breath, he removed himself from those thoughts. It was time to be practical, and matter-of-fact about it. That was all he could do, all he could allow himself to do.

"I'll speak to your father," he said, his voice regaining some air of purpose as he stepped past her. "But not until tomorrow, if you don't mind. I need – some time…"

"Of course." She ached to reach out to him, just to touch his arm, something, _anything_… But she couldn't bear the thought that her touch would repulse him, as she imagined it would. So she clasped her hands tightly together instead. She hardly knew how to feel or what to think; he'd done it, he'd agreed and yet… she could see, so very clearly in his very posture and expression, what agony it caused him to do so. She could laugh, now, to see their earlier selves… asking hesitantly if the idea of marriage to each other was still so very abhorrent.

Now, clearly, it was. And yet the choice, as they had feared those few months ago in that first, heady rush, had been stripped from them. All that was left to face them now seemed to be misery, for how could they be happy together, after what she'd done?

* * *

As it happened, Mary was grateful for Matthew's plea for one day to accustom himself to the idea. For now she'd cleared the first hurdle (and really, she'd hardly expected that, even) of his consent to marry, there were still many to face. Uncountable, unconquerable hurdles, it seemed. But at least this one, she might have a chance at clearing.

After dinner, through which she scraped quietly and thankfully without another burst of sickness, she whispered to her mother to come and speak with her later. It was just as Anna was finishing readying her for bed that Cora knocked quietly and came in, waiting until the maid had left before she said anything.

"Well, darling," she began. "I think it must be serious for you to have summoned me to your bedroom in such secret!"

The smile faded quickly from her lips as Mary simply stared at her hands in her lap. "What is it?" she asked, more gently now.

"Matthew was here earlier," Mary said, her tone flat and impassive.

"Yes, your father mentioned so. Did – you talk with him?"

"I did, yes." She looked up at her mother, who seemed breathless with anticipation, and thought carefully about just how much to reveal. "Tomorrow he's going to ask Papa for permission to marry me."

Cora gasped. "Oh, my darling!" she beamed in delight. "And – have you thought how to answer him? We'd – worried, with him being so absent lately –"

"I've already accepted him," Mary smiled ruefully, with a little shrug. "Because – I had to." Her hands delicately folded over her flat belly, and Cora's eyes widened before she reached out to grasp Mary's hands tightly between her own.

"Do you – darling, are you –"

"Yes," her hand rose to cover her mouth as a sob escaped, and her mother pulled her tightly into a comforting embrace.

Cora kissed her hair, rubbing her back soothingly as Mary shook from her tears, her mind bursting with questions. She'd worried about this, after Mary's indiscretion with the Turk, and how ill she had seemed recently. What fortuitous timing of Matthew! Although…

"Does Matthew know?" she asked quietly. From what she knew of her husband's heir, to be father to another man's child was not something he'd take kindly to, at all.

"Oh," Mary sat up, and wiped her eyes, schooling her expression back to normalcy. "You mustn't worry about that. I'll – deal with it." She couldn't possibly explain to her mother, not that, and carried on before she could press her on it any more. "The thing is, you know we'll need to marry quickly. And – Papa won't understand but if you're in favour of it –"

"Alright, darling, I see," Cora tried to soothe her daughter, who was now pacing restlessly at the foot of the bed. She reached again for her hand, and held it tightly and reassuringly. "Don't worry about it anymore – I'll take care of all that. And – you can convince Matthew of the need for it, too?"

She nodded. "Yes, I believe so." Oh, he knew it already, but no-one else needed to know that. While part of her felt horribly calculating about it all, what choice did she have? If Matthew had refused her, she would have accepted it – what more had she to lose, than him? – but somewhere she had always known what his reaction would be, with the chance of it being his own child – no matter his feelings for her.

It seemed too late, she was too exhausted, to feel much worse about it as she curled into bed after her mother had left. She felt sick again and curled up, fisting the bedsheets into her hands and pressing her face into them as she tried to blot out the darkness. Matthew was going to marry her… If only, if _only_ she had realised sooner that it was everything she had wanted. And now she was to realise her dream, but in the context of a nightmare.

There was nothing to do but make the best of it… what little that might be.

* * *

Matthew decided to sleep on the matter before telling his mother, suffering through a dinner that he could barely stomach and then claiming an early night (as he'd been doing all too often, lately).

Dismissing Molesley, he undressed himself and climbed into bed, shifting restlessly at the friction of cotton against his skin. Suddenly it all seemed unnatural to him, as he wondered… if Mary would be his wife… would she sleep here? With him?

He rolled to his side and balled his fist into the sheets, staring blankly at the wall, gritting his teeth as he tried to choke back the emotions cloying in his throat. _It was not supposed to be this way_. It had never occurred to Matthew that he would not want to share his bed with his wife. He forced himself to think about it now… Mary beside him, her hair splayed across the pillow, the sheets tucked around her warm body (and God, he knew how she looked…), her gentle breaths… and felt sick, so violently that he had to sit up and lower his head between his knees.

It was impossible to think of her without… _him_. Matthew suddenly hated the man with anger that burned through his veins, for the audacity to seduce Mary to take him into her bed and then to _die_ and leave things broken and shattered… leaving it to him to pick up the pieces, and shoulder the burden of responsibility for Mary's child. Whoever's it might be.

Such thoughts were toxic but he couldn't help it, they ate away at him day and night unless he was able to force the distraction of work. But… she was _pregnant_, and he must marry her, and he couldn't ignore them any longer. How _could_ he, when she was to live in this house? He glanced across once more at the pillow, the pillow that would be hers, and then lay back down and turned away from it.

He _couldn't_. But how could he have a wife whom he could not… share a bed with, let alone… be intimate with. He bit down on his fist as another wave of nausea hit him. Though the thoughts tempted him, her body tempted him (it was _Mary_, and he had loved her… so very, very much), he couldn't fight the stink of repulsion at the memory of another man's hands, another man's lips, on her body, that she had _welcomed_ as she had his own.

By morning, the answer was no clearer to him, but… there were more pressing things to think of today than how he was to sleep with his wife. Namely… how she was to become his wife at all.

After only nibbling at his toast, he took a sip of tea and, as casually as he could manage, mentioned that he was planning on leaving work at lunchtime and visiting the Abbey. It was the first time he had mentioned it by choice in over a month, and that was enough to perk Isobel's interest.

"Are you going to see Cousin Robert again? You were only there yesterday," she wondered, smiling encouragingly at her son.

He forced his smile to brighten. "Yes, I am – and, I know. There's something I wanted to ask him. A – rather personal thing, I suppose." It occurred to him that it was probably usual to be nervous over a marriage proposal, and so the tremor in his voice did not concern him too much.

"Oh?" Isobel set down her cutlery and blinked expectantly. Matthew tried to take a little courage from it, and chose his words carefully (after all, he had spent nearly the whole night working out how to go about this in such a way as to avoid his mother's usual interrogations).

"You can probably guess what it is," he teased her gently, and was rewarded by her look of satisfaction. That would help. But now… saying the words… Oh, it was hard! He took a breath. "I'm going – to ask him for Mary's hand. To – be my wife."

She couldn't see how tightly he was gripping his butter knife, the only place he could allow the uncomfortable tension that stiffened him to show.

"Matthew, my dear, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand across the table. "I thought – my darling boy, I thought you'd favoured her but then you seemed so determined to stay away –"

"I know," Matthew cut her off quickly, desperately afraid of such a line of conversation, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I think – I was too afraid of what I felt. Which I suppose is silly and – then we talked properly yesterday for the first time in weeks and – it seemed suddenly very clear to me."

Though it wasn't _quite_ a lie (the words themselves were true, only his mother couldn't know their true meaning), his assurances stuck in his throat. Luckily, there was no reason at all for Isobel to suspect he would marry her for any reason besides that he loved her… and so he did not have to say it.

Isobel beamed at him. "I'm so glad," she smiled tearfully, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Guilt wrenched through Matthew at what he felt was a deception, for it was not to be _glad_ about… but he could only keep the smile fixed to his lips until he was able to make his excuses and leave for work.

* * *

"My dear boy!" Robert clapped him heartily on the back, brimming with happiness. "I thought you'd never ask!"

"Well, I – admit I wondered myself at times!" Matthew replied ruefully. It saddened him, how quickly he'd settled to these half-truths that he covered with smiles. But… how long could he maintain them? Through an engagement, a wedding, a marriage… His future stretched impossibly in front of him and he felt short of breath. It ached, it drained him, even this. He felt as though he were slowly deadening somewhere deep within his soul.

"I know things haven't been easy," the Earl said more seriously, "but – if you have found a way to be happy now, then I couldn't be more pleased. It's wonderful, wonderful news. I suppose we'll leave it to the ladies to sort out dates and more technical arrangements –"

Matthew cut in. "Actually, we'd – like to get married as soon as we can."

He held his breath, and when the Earl raised a querulous eyebrow, he carried on with his well-rehearsed excuse. "I know it seems rather sudden but I suppose that's the thing. After – making such a mess of things up till now, we're rather eager to settle ourselves before one of us does something silly again!" He tried to laugh, and though it came out as something more like a strangled gasp, Robert latched onto the joke and laughed heartily.

"Well, my boy. I suppose I can't begrudge you both that, though I can only hope my wife won't throw up too much of a fuss about it! It can't be a small affair, you know."

Matthew had supposed that, and the thought made his chest tighten in anxiety. How he wished he could simply hide away from it all, and shut his eyes and somehow come out the other side with everything _alright_. Though how it could ever _be_ alright, he had no idea.

Of course, he could not. He supposed he could only be thankful that it all happened so quickly, like a whirlwind, with Cora championing their haste… and he barely had time to breathe, it seemed, through the four short weeks it took for their wedding to be planned. He was thankful, as well, for the fact that it appeared the groom had pitifully little to do with it all, for that on top of everything he could not have borne. He found himself shunted to suit fittings (though that he could pretend was quite normal), and a meeting or two with the vicar that he gritted his teeth through but… incredibly, that was it, as flowers and menus and guests were left to Mary (with his mother eager to play her part and help).

He was thankful for the pressing rush of the arrangements, as it left him only the night times to think. To think how Mary was to be his wife, to live with him, and he was to become a father to a child that he didn't even know was his own.

And before he could think any more (for it tortured him to do so)… it was upon them.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thank you ever so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, and I appreciate so much all your comments. Thank you!_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _Hello! Thank you so much for your thoughtful reviews, and to anyone who's alerted/favourited - I'm incredibly touched you're still with me! Also I must thank both **Pemonynen** and **EOlivet **for discussing some upcoming plot points with me - however much I try and plan, M/M just take me where they want to go. Thanks also to the latter for her polish and enthusiasm!_

_And, here we are.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

On the morning of her wedding day, Mary was rudely awoken by the protestations of her own body, an occurrence which was becoming more and more familiar.

Raising her head wearily from the washbowl and wiping her mouth, she pushed herself from her knees to her feet and rang for Anna, pressing a hand gently to her belly, thankfully still hiding its secret well. Dawn, she noticed, was just beginning to break and the sky looked blessedly clear. Her spirits were low enough as it was, without the need for persistent, cold drizzle to dampen them further.

It was not how she had ever envisaged this day, in the girlish dreams of her youth (where had that gone, she wondered?). At least she did not need to plaster that charmed, gracious smile to her face in the presence of her mother and Anna, as hands and silk and lace and pearls swept over her, transforming her into the vision of a pure maiden that felt like a gaudy lie, no matter how beautiful she objectively knew herself to look.

As Anna pinned her hair with care up and into perfectly placed curls and waves, Mary dabbed powder across her forehead and cheeks in an attempt to hide the pallor they would dare to reveal.

"How do you feel, Milady?" the maid asked, touching Mary's shoulder gently for a moment.

"Quite sick," Mary smiled ruefully, and then shrugged. "But I think that today at least I might put that down to the blushing nerves of a young bride, don't you think?"

Cora smiled from where she perched on Mary's bed. "Of course, darling. And this is so much for the best that you have reason enough to be cheerful, as much as any young woman about to marry. So do try to smile, won't you."

"Mama!" Mary laughed sharply, her shoulders shaking in something bordering on hysteria until she settled herself with a deep breath or two. "I know perfectly well I've every reason to smile, so please trust me to manage it without your insistence!"

If only it were that easy, she thought. Though her thoughts were soon distracted by her younger sisters sweeping in and cooing over her in their pale blue gowns and smiles and the rush of activity as they left, she could not hold them at bay for long.

Finally ensconced in the carriage that would bear her to her wedding, she peered out of the windows at the cold February sunlight that shone over the grounds, that would one day now be hers as they should be. They passed into the village which was covered in reams of white bunting, strung from every rooftop and lamp-post, and she saw the multitudes of villagers (there seemed to be more than she'd ever known) who'd come to wish her – them both, she supposed – well. And the fraud of it broke her heart.

For it was everything she'd ever wanted. The dress, the flowers, the carriage, the banquet… It was everything she'd dreamed of, and beyond that the man waiting for her in the church owned her heart, which was… _more_ than she'd ever dreamed of. And yet it was all a sham, a deception, to cover the shame of the child she bore that he did not want. She wondered at how everything that seemed so perfect, so right, could be so irreversibly soured and tainted, all at the same time.

"My darling girl," her father's voice broke softly into her thoughts, and she blinked at him with a tremulous smile. He took her hand. "It's alright to be nervous, you know. But Matthew's a very good man – you must know that or we wouldn't be here, and – you know I couldn't be more proud of you both, or happier."

Mary's heart ached. "Oh, Papa… Matthew is the best of men. I'm as sure of that as I am of myself," she laughed to keep the tears that threatened in check. If her father only knew, how disappointed he'd be, and yet here he was _proud_ of her… for doing her duty. For marrying the man they'd wanted her to, for securing Downton… She squeezed his hand tightly, thankful for his ignorance as she couldn't bear his faith in her to be destroyed.

"I'm glad, my dear."

They sat in silence for a few moments more, until the church drew into sight. How pretty it looked, how cheerful and promising. Mary drew a gentle breath and squeezed her father's fingers tighter, suddenly feeling so terribly young and unsure.

"Papa, I…"

He smiled encouragingly. "What is it?"

"I… do love him, you know." A faint, breathless smile touched her lips and for a moment, her eyes shone softly, with the threat or the promise of tears. Her father leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, and in the slight gesture Mary suddenly realised all the affection that she hadn't known he held. She kissed his own in return, taking a deep breath and loving her dear Papa more than she ever had.

"Then I've no doubt that you'll share every happiness, my darling daughter," he assured her kindly.

Oh, how she wished she could believe him! It seemed faintly ridiculous; that instead of love being the reason for a happy marriage, she anticipated it was that very love and the agony of hurt it had caused that was making her heart leaden with despair and regret. But it was too late for all of that now.

As the coach drew to a halt and the door was opened for her and a hand offered to help her down, Mary schooled her features into the demure smile she'd practised for the last month. Her sisters were there, and she kissed them each before taking her father's arm, her heart pounding in time with the music that suddenly echoed from the doorway before her.

She felt her father's hand cover hers, and allowed herself to be led as the doors swung open to reveal a seemingly endless, carpeted aisle flanked by hundreds of people, people who as one body turned their expectant faces to see her as she glided with a fluttering heart towards the altar and her future, her security, her love.

He was her love, standing tall and handsome at the top of the aisle, the only person to not be looking at her. Instantly Mary took in the expensive cut of his morning suit, his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders and his hair that held a slight, thick wave. Her heart leapt instinctively before it sank again, wondering how she could be so fortunate and so undeserving as to take him for her husband.

The man beside him (a university friend of Matthew's, she recalled his name was Martin) leaned to whisper something close to his ear. She saw Matthew nod in acknowledgement. The aisle stretched endlessly, when would she reach him…

When he turned at last to see her, she was grateful for the support of her father's arm, for her knees nearly gave way beneath her. His blue eyes locked onto hers, he was impossibly handsome, and for the slightest moment his lips twitched up… before his gaze dropped, slid away from her, she saw his chest dip with the tightness of his breath as he couldn't face her anymore, and her own clenched against the pain she felt from it. To anyone else, she knew, his reaction might simply be pinned as being overwhelmed by the beauty of his bride, by the enormity of the promise they were about to make to each other.

And then her father was kissing her cheek again, passing her hand into Matthew's that felt cool against the clammy warmth of her own palm.

Matthew stared at their joined hands, and wished that he could tell her how beautiful she looked. Only he couldn't, because to look at her, to think of it, made his heart spear with remembrance of why they were here and marrying as they were.

The vicar's voice bored into his mind, as he clasped her hand so tightly as if it were the only thing that could stop him running screaming from this place and her and everything she made him feel. _It is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly_… Oh, they certainly weren't doing that. Nothing about their union was undertaken lightly. Unadvisedly? Perhaps. But it was the only choice, the only _right_ choice, so that must sanction it… _Reverently, soberly_… Yes, he was certain of those at least.

He repeated his vows, as he'd rehearsed the day before, with a quiet and trembling voice. Still, he stared at their hands, her hands, that must forever now be his – oh, but it seemed rather late for that, didn't it. _The holy estate of matrimony_, God, what about their union was holy? He would honour her, he would forsake all others, he would keep only to her as long as they both might live. His voice broke upon the promise to love her and cherish her, and he rapidly blinked away the tears stinging his throat and eyes, praying that it might be seen simply as an expression of the intensity of his feeling. That, he supposed, was only the truth.

Mary followed him, proclaiming her vows to him with all the reverence and sincerity that she could muster, for truly she meant every word, if only each promise did not feel so… tainted, with how she had defiled them so before this day. If only he would, or _could_ believe her!

For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health… they were bound, and then sealed by the ring he placed with shaking hands upon her finger.

Matthew couldn't comprehend how their life might work, how they could achieve that joy with each passing year that the vicar spoke of so fervently. He could barely think how this day would work, this night, with her. Could he harbour such pain forever? Surely not. But… he could not yet conceive of the weight in his heart dissipating, he could not remember how it felt not to ache with the disappointment of ruined dreams and shattered trust, or how to look at… his wife, and simply love her, and want her, without the burden of pain that she carried for him now.

At last they were man and wife, and he dutifully leaned forwards, his lips trembling as they touched hers to kiss her for the first time since that afternoon when he had allowed her to undo him and he had loved her. How innocent he'd been, how stupid. Her lips were as soft as he'd remembered, and… just as quickly he shied away from them, and the memory, of everything that had brought them to this point.

As the organ burst to life to herald their union and they turned to walk together back down the aisle, he shared one breathless glance with her. This was it, where their act must begin. They smiled, though those smiles faltered and trembled, supposed by their guests to be from elation and the relief of nervousness. And then they were swept up in cheers and rice and smiles, and bundled into the carriage which pushed through the village's residents who waved handkerchiefs at them and blew kisses and…

"They're all so happy for us," Mary said quietly, the silence between them in their solitude at last stifling her.

Matthew stared out of the window, mustering a smile to his lips and waving.

"Well, why shouldn't they be. It's been quite the spectacle for them." His lips quirked wryly at the thought of just how apt that term for it seemed.

"I suppose," Mary glanced at him, her breath quickening again at his handsomeness and the very fact that he was her husband… "that wasn't ever how you expected to get married."

"It wasn't." He licked his lips and continued to fix his gaze out of the window, though they were past the well-wishers now and into the Abbey's grounds. Turning back to her, just for a moment, he asked softly, "Was it for you?"

The weight of his eyes on her was too much, and it was Mary's turn to stare at the countryside rocking past, though it made her feel a little ill and her hand went instinctively to rest where her corset pressed in her belly. Matthew's eyes followed her movement, though he quickly looked away.

"No," she whispered. "Whatever you might think, it wasn't."

* * *

The scale of their wedding proved fortunate for them. Despite the haste of its organisation, everyone who might be expected to attend the wedding of the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham (to his heir, no less) had done so. It was a society affair, and besides the necessary compliments and graces and wishes everyone owed to the bride and her family, a great deal of curiosity abounded. The guests of the aristocracy knew nothing of the middle-class heir, and were relishing the opportunity to find it out. Likewise, those friends and relatives of Matthew's (seeming pitifully few compared to those invited by the Earl and Countess) were anxious to see this new world into which he'd been thrust, and had apparently become so quickly initiated into.

As such, the bride and groom barely found their paths crossing through the entire celebration, or at least when appearances dictated they must stand together they had no need to communicate much. Matthew stood with his hand lightly on his wife's back as they greeted their guests (it seemed to take hours, and no one could question their smiles wearing thin by the end), and as they sat together through the meal they could be more occupied with eating it (or trying to) for anyone to wonder why they talked so little.

When it fell to them to dance together, they did so, and for that minute or two Matthew simply closed his eyes and breathed her in and tried his very hardest to imagine that he was happy. For Mary was in his arms, he could feel the faint tickle of her hair against his cheek, her hand in his, she was moving gently against him and with him and… if he closed his eyes he could almost be dreaming. He _had_ dreamed of this, so often… But when the music ended and he stepped back and looked in her eyes, and saw the understanding in them again his dream shattered afresh.

If anyone questioned as to why he did not dance with his wife again, he passed it off with a chuckle and said that he had the rest of his life to enjoy that pleasure, so why should he deny it to others now for the evening? And then his own words kicked him in the gut as he remembered other pleasures that she'd given to another, that now should be his alone for the rest of his life, and… the smile faltered on his lips as he sought a moment's solitude and some air. To anyone who disturbed him there, he claimed simply to be overwhelmed by the whole day, and they quite understood and patted him on the back and said again how wonderful it all was. He could only smile graciously and nod.

* * *

How he'd wished for the day to be over, and all too soon it was. Too soon, for as Mary went upstairs to change for them to leave, his heart began to pound with fear for what it would mean next. His mother found him hovering anxiously by the tables strewn with the debris of their wedding breakfast.

"I'm sure she won't be long, my dear. How do you feel?" She smiled at her son and touched his arm, and he twisted to kiss her cheek lightly.

"Oh. To tell the truth I'm shattered, it's been – quite an exhausting day!" He smiled tightly. "Is it very terrible to admit I'm quite glad it's nearly over?"

Isobel grinned kindly. "Not at all, Matthew, not at all. Only you mustn't be too tired –"

"Mother!"

"No, no – I'm sorry, you've got all that quite under control I'm sure!"

Matthew pressed his lips together and stared at his feet, feeling colour spread in his cheeks. "Quite so, thank you…"

How could he tell her the truth of it? His heart stabbed again at how disappointed his mother must be in him if she were ever to know. How… he hardly needed to consummate his marriage as they were well past the blushing, fumbling nerves of a pure and virginal wedding night. How his wife already bore the secret of a child, a secret formed without thought of wedlock and fathered either by him or, worse, a dead Turk whom Matthew was fairly sure would be dead by his own hands now, had he not already passed.

The shame of it bore down on him, and he forced a smile to his lips and pulled his mother into a fond embrace so that she couldn't see when it faltered.

"I'm so happy for you, my darling boy," she murmured fondly into her son's shoulder. "And I do hope you'll be very, very happy together for very many years to come."

"Thank you Mama," he whispered tightly, fighting to keep his voice in check. "I very much hope so too."

She hugged him again, and when they parted Matthew found his eyes fixed on the vision of his wife coming down the grandeur of the staircase in a well-cut skirt and coat of the purest white, with pearl buttons and a hat veiled with the most delicate of chiffon. He swallowed and looked at his feet, tightening his fists by his sides, willing himself to take this step for he had no other choice.

He found her, and she took his arm, and they were shown out to the waiting car as the newlywed Mr. and Lady Mary Crawley, to the accompaniment of cheers and whistles and waves from their guests. The car pulled away, and again they found themselves floundering under the leaden realisation that there was no going back.

Alone with each other again, they each stared out of their window and into the darkness reflectively, wondering at what was to come from this point on, both tonight and for their future. It seemed too much to possibly comprehend, too complicated, too difficult, too fraught with tangled and powerful emotions of all kinds. For all that Mary had achieved everything she could possibly have wanted, she felt numb as she tried to reconcile that with the desperate weight on her heart, that could only be lifted by Matthew's forgiveness that she wasn't sure he could ever grant. And she knew she couldn't push him to it – heaven knew she had pushed him to enough already.

When his soft voice broke the silence over the chug of the motor, she startled and turned to face him.

"You must be so tired," he observed quietly, and Mary drew in a breath as she realised that his gaze had fallen to her waist, and knew what it was that he meant.

"I am… Thank you. But I've been alright since this morning."

"You didn't eat much," Matthew shrugged gently. They both knew that her sickness would have been hard to explain.

"Neither did you."

They shared a small, understanding smile, and fell silent again, neither noticing how close their hands rested on the seat between them. If they did, they would only have withdrawn their own rather than dare to touch the other. There was too much distance, too much distrust and regret between them now.

The motor pulled up outside Crawley House. Darkness had fallen several hours ago, and the air held a cold chill as Matthew helped his wife out of the car. She waited, then, watching it leave them alone before her husband opened the door to their home and showed her inside.

He didn't look at her.

"You know where the bedroom is, don't you," he said quietly. Her things had been moved over in dribs and drabs over the last week or so, and she'd overseen them being settled into the master bedroom while Matthew had been at work. Somehow, they'd managed to never quite cross paths, and Matthew had only made a note each evening of what was changed. His bedroom, as well as himself, had slowly become something he barely recognised.

"Yes," she nodded. "Thank you for being so –"

"Please, Mary, don't thank me," he sighed, weary from the stress of everything that day. The morning seemed like a lifetime ago. "Anna should be there for you by now, and – you must ask if you need anything else."

"Yes. Alright."

She didn't know whether to bid him goodnight or not, hardly daring to hope that he might come to her. After all it was his bedroom he'd welcomed her to, and it was their wedding night so convention dictated – oh, but what had they done that was conventional so far in their relationship? She simply nodded, smiled, and went up the stairs ahead of him.

Matthew instead went into the sitting room and poured himself a strong brandy, sinking into his favourite chair as the day spun around his head. She was here, she was his wife, they were married. He had to be a husband to her. He… _wanted_ to be, he knew, somewhere within him. But how could he be, after all that had gone on?

Dismissing Molesley, he climbed the stairs and went to his dressing room. He'd had the bed in there made up, and he looked at it now, as if it stood to mock him and his marriage and the love that had burned within him. It was the very symbol of the failure of all his dreams for himself and Mary. Could he live like this? How long for?

Thoughts such as these batted across his mind as he undressed, tossing his wedding clothes carelessly onto the bed and re-dressing in his pyjamas. Back and forth, again and again, trapped endlessly in the cycle of the impossibility of his despair.

He didn't know what to do, what he _could_ do… and at a loss for any sort of answer, he found his hand lifting to knock softly upon the bedroom door. His, that now should be theirs, that was hers.

"Come in," he heard her voice bid him softly.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _And now let's all look forward to Series 3 to see their wedding as it should be, i.e. HAPPY... :S Thank you so much for reading! Of course I'm curious as ever to know what you think, and I'm so often challenged and inspired by your responses._

_Next update won't be till next weekend at the earliest as I'm going to Paris for the week - hence me squeezing in this chapter now. :) Thank you!  
_


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _Bonjour!_

_Apologies for the delay in this update, and for my lack of getting back to many of you who were so kind as to review Chapter 10! Your continued support and enthusiasm means a great deal to me, thank you so much :)  
_

_My heartfelt gratitude as ever goes to EOlivet who has listened to me witter on endlessly about this chapter and lent it her usual sparkle! She also informed me that what happens in this chapter is apparently akin to the second stage of a marriage breaking up. Ummm... oh dear. Just thought I'd point that out.  
_

_Enjoy...!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

The master bedroom of Crawley House was dark, lit dimly by a small lamp on the bedside cabinet beside Mary that cast her and the bed in a little pool of light, and shadows into the further corners of the room. As she looked up from where she lay reclining against the pillows yet not at all relaxed, Matthew stepped hesitantly through the door. Light from the hallway shone around him briefly before it closed behind him and both drew an involuntary, unheard breath at the sight of the other and the strange and immediate tension of the situation.

Matthew's body immediately tensed, and his fingers lingered on the doorknob for a moment while he suppressed the inclination of his limbs to run away from the tempest of emotions that assaulted him at the sight of her, in his bed, her body swathed in loose white cotton (from what he could glimpse above the veil of his sheets, at least, pulled high up her chest) and her thick, dark hair restrained in a long plait that draped over her shoulder. It was exactly the vision that had haunted him in dream and memory, and his heart stopped for a beat as he took her in, swallowed, steadied himself.

She stared at him, her breath quickening imperceptibly, standing against the closed door in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He looked so… vulnerable, and there would be something almost childlike about him were it not for the firm masculinity of his chest, and shoulders, heightened by the open collar of his night-wear and the way it clung softly to his body. She shivered at the powerful wave of affection that broke in her heart for him, and self-consciously smoothed the sheets at her sides, feeling uncomfortably aware that she lay in his own bed that he'd left for her, and yet…

"I hardly expected you." Her soft voice touched the heavy silence between them, and Matthew blinked as if startled.

"No, I… think you'd have been right not to, I hardly expected myself to…" He trailed off and shook his head, forcing his fingers back to his side and taking a small step into the room. A small step closer to her… His wife. His mind couldn't grasp the concept, it was all wrong, all skewed, not _right_.

Standing now in the middle of the room, Matthew lifted his shoulders into a gentle shrug and looked somehow lost. "I don't really know why I'm here," he said softly, more to himself than to Mary, his distracted gaze turned to the floor.

"Oh. And yet… here you are!" She said it lightly, in a vain attempt to allay the thick, almost cloying air that seemed to hang over them and between them. Her fingers stroked restlessly over the bedlinen, and she looked away from him, nervous.

"Yes." The air was so thick that it felt an effort to move in it. The gentle frown over Matthew's brow tightened into a grimace of confusion. To be in this room with her, to see her, made his heart sink and sting with regret. For everything this night should have been, and could not be. It was hard to breathe. Seeing her like this provoked simultaneous stirrings of desire and disgust, that he could not reconcile, and to even consciously acknowledge either hurt him in some deep, fundamental way. But despite it he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Feeling weak with regret and despair, he sank down onto the bed beside her, facing her, staring at her hand that rested near his knee. Mary fought the urge to withdraw it to her lap and waited. Matthew had come to her, and she felt instinctively that she must let him work out his purpose for himself, for whatever was in his mind was a closed mystery to her. Her breaths became shallower, and she watched him with wide eyes.

Silence reigned for a long time, though in truth it might only have been seconds. When Matthew finally broke it, his voice was barely a murmur. "I wanted to marry you so much," he breathed, the words heavy with sorrow. His frown deepened in some internal battle with himself, and he stared fixedly still at her hand.

"And now you have." Her reply was terribly quiet, terribly cautious.

"Not like this!" he hissed, and his fingers curled into a defiant fist on his knee. Mary drew in a sharp breath but remained outwardly composed, her only movement that of her left hand lifting unconsciously to cover her belly where her wedding ring glinted softly in the lamplight.

"We neither of us did, Matthew," she lowered her voice carefully to soothe him, and gradually he calmed, his shoulders stilling and breath quieting.

"I was going to ask you, you know." This was said almost more to himself than to her, as Matthew found himself lost in his internal world of what ifs and regrets and maybes. If only he'd accepted sooner how he felt, if only he'd have taken the chance, if only he hadn't reacted so stubbornly and priggishly to her rightful indignation and recognised it as such… How different this night might be, now. Instead, the circumstance of their marriage had been everything they'd despised and rejected, and now it was done and they were committed, forever. "Before we… had that stupid, stupid argument."

"Oh, Matthew…" Mary's heart stabbed as she remembered his expression getting off the train that day, so full of hope and adoration that had only angered her. The memory and her awareness now of her foolishness mocked her cruelly.

"Would it have made a difference?" He looked at her at last, suddenly earnest, his clouded blue eyes pleading with her as if he sought absolution of some kind. "If I'd have asked you then, if I hadn't have been so – damned proud. If I'd listened and hadn't gone with Edith, would you – still have –"

"Please, don't!" The plea wracked out in almost a sob as her husband's voice broke at the acknowledgment of her immorality. She couldn't bear him to take any blame upon himself and every fibre of her being ached with regret at not having given him the chance, of throwing her own life to ruin so rashly when she could've had… "It's done, Matthew, there's no use in – trying to excuse any of that now, certainly not for _you_ to!"

"Oh, God," Matthew hissed through the threat of tears stinging his throat, as without warning he grasped Mary's hand and lowered his head, pressing his lips to the back of it and then his forehead. She gasped, her arm rigid with tension as she watched him shatter before her, his shoulders and back visibly shaking beneath the thick wool of his dressing gown. She could barely hear his repeated murmur over his ragged breaths, over and over, quietly, "I am… so, so sorry, Mary…"

Her eyes squeezed shut to block out the image of him so distressed; she felt inherently that she must hold herself together at least despite every inch of her crying out for release, to break apart in his arms and weep for everything they'd thrown away only she knew he would not take her. She settled for curling her fingers around his, tightly, cherishing the slight touch of his warm skin and knowing that it was all he bring himself to could give her.

They might have stayed like that all night… Matthew's hot, sweat-beaded forehead on her hand, sometimes his lips, trembling and sorrowful, their fingers curled desperately together. Her other hand had lifted some time ago to cover her face, as if it might shield her from the searing pain of it all. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, a quiet recklessness or courage overtook her. Matthew was here, and there had fostered between them a kind of honesty or intimacy in the darkness and the night. If she could not say it here, and now… then could she ever again? Would he ever come to her at night, after this night, with neither inclination or obligation?

She took her chance, and squeezed his fingers gently. "I meant it, you know," she said softly. He raised his head and her heart clenched at his red-rimmed eyes and innocently parted lips. The faintest of smiles touched her lips. "I do love you. I do, so… very much."

What reaction she had expected, she wasn't sure, but knew instantly that whatever she unconsciously might have hoped for was not to be fulfilled as he snapped away from her. His eyes hardened and he stood, and paced to the foot of the bed where he gripped the best post and sagged against it.

"How can I – possibly believe that now?" he whispered bitterly. War raged within him. Part of him wanted to believe her, so desperately, after everything and for all he knew she _might_… and yet he couldn't. For as much as she might love him, she might not, for there was no reason to believe that she did. He had saved her, materially and socially, secured her. She claimed to have asked nothing of him, but he knew (as she must have, if she knew him at all) that to marry her was the only answer he was capable of giving. She'd played his affections, taken another to her bed and then him and wrenched his devotion before falling upon his mercy when she needed it. And now they were in this miserable, impossible situation and for all he knew she could be doing it again. Playing him, reeling him in, to her own advantage. He had no idea and could not trust himself when it came to her.

He turned and looked at her with such deep sorrow that she was forced to bite her lip to hold back her sob. He shook his head, aching with regret. "I can't, however much… I might want to."

Mary's eyes closed in resignation, before one last, desperate burst of determination clung to her.

"Then let me show you!" she cried. He _wanted_ to, that was a start, he _had_ loved her… If only she could reclaim that, nurture it back from him, somehow… But Matthew, frustrated with himself and them both and overcome by bitterness at the mess of their relationship, snapped back in response.

"Like you showed _him_?" The harsh words cut across the thick air like a knife, wounding her, and though he knew he'd regret such coldness later he was too hurt himself to care. Hurt, and ashamed of himself, for having trusted his judgement so poorly.

Mary riled to anger herself in response, having tired of self-pity and having lost patience with Matthew's. Her hands balled into small fists wrapped tightly in the sheets surrounding her.

"For heaven's sake, Matthew! Must he resurrect himself between us to the end of our days? You can't possibly –"

"How can he _not_!" Matthew glared uncharitably, his body tensed in frustration. It wasn't as if he wanted things this way! Did she believe that it satisfied him, somehow, to be continually tortured with the memory of what she had done? His voice cracked despairingly. "I'd forget it all if I could but I – _can't_, not when – I must be reminded of it every day by the knowledge that it might be his child you carry! How can either of us forget it when _that_," he gestured inarticulately and furiously towards her abdomen, "is to be always between us?"

"_Might _be, Matthew – and very well might _not_!" A kind of protectiveness raged through her against him, for her child and his careless dismissal of it when it so very well could be his own, and she _wanted_ it to be so dearly. He must understand that! Her knuckles where white where her fingers clenched around the sheets, as were Matthew's upon the bedpost. Torment raged in their expressions that was impossible to work out, it was all… impossible… She pleaded with him. "If you could only know how I –"

But he couldn't.

"I'm so sorry," he cut her off, in too much anguish to bear any justification she might be able to give. It would only torment him, would leave him wracked with doubts and struggling with a conflict that he couldn't even grasp within himself. "I wish I could believe you, I do, I'm… so sorry but…"

Shaking his head, he lowered his eyes from the image of her in his bed and walked quickly back to the connecting door that led back to the security of his dressing room. It was simply too much to bear, now.

"Matthew –"

"I'm sorry," he said again, his hand already on the door and his head lowered, his back to her. "Goodnight, Mary…"

And he left her, his heart aching as the door closed irrevocably between them and they each curled unseen into their separate beds, the remainder of their wedding night spent sleeplessly and tearfully and alone.

* * *

In the morning, a cold sort of formality settled over them to protect against the pain the intimacy of the night before had stung them with. They dressed separately, breakfasted together, and said very little.

They'd agreed to honeymoon in London, for convenience, and to allow a justified occupation of their time as seclusion would have proved unbearable. Mary was grateful beyond measure that Anna had been released to travel with them, who understood her condition and would not question her despondency when it rose its head beyond the limits of her usually unflappable coolness.

She spent much of the time reading, though her novels dissatisfied her in their foolish and troublesome depictions of love. Love, she'd come to realise, was cruel and unforgiving, and the daily reminders of her failings hurt terribly. Once she might have consoled herself with browsing the latest fashion lines, but the pleasure of this was soured by the knowledge that any gowns she might treat herself to now would be banished from daylight to the confines of her wardrobe in a short few months more.

The diversion of the evenings was little better, as Matthew took her out to dine or to the opera, where they could busy themselves with eating or watching and the bustle and chatter around them distracted them from the clamouring silence that would besiege them at Grantham House. But to see life and pleasure and drama around them only served as a painful reminder of how disappointing things had proved for themselves.

Matthew busied himself by acting the tourist, as while he'd had business in London on rare occasions the pleasures of the city were relatively new to him. He took advantage of his anonymity without Mary to visit museums and galleries in which he doubted she would have much interest, and in any case she was so tired at the moment. He wondered at the beauty he saw in them. But all of it paled in comparison to… her, he knew that, and it pained and frustrated him.

There was some part of Matthew that hated himself abominably. A part where the love he'd harboured could not be quashed or forgotten, and it stung him daily. The truth of it was, though, that he was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of his inability to forget, or to forgive, and the latent desire that reared itself in him when he looked at his wife only mocked him when it just as quickly chilled with the memory of the Turk in her bed. Desire became inseparable from shame, and he hated himself for the wretched position it left him in, and what a failure of a husband he was.

When, on some mornings, he heard Mary's sickness through the thin walls of the bathroom, the reminder of the child and the complete lack of affection he felt towards it reproached him bitterly with sorrow. He felt as if he had failed himself, his family, Mary, the baby that he tried so hard not to think of… and the only way to ease the pain was to not let himself think of it. To distract himself, for Mary's sake as much as his own, he imagined. And so he withdrew himself from her, distanced himself, paid her the barest attentions and courtesies when they had to be together and took himself away from her when they did not. He told himself it was compassionate, to remove from her the reminder of his scorn and the fact that he could not accept her protestations of regret or affection. Mary could not understand this, of course; she could only assume that his utter lack of desire to be with her in any way was down to the distaste he must hold her in. But deep within herself she could not blame him for feeling so, and her pride was too great still to lower herself to beg anything more from him, however much his coldness hurt her.

Things carried on in this manner on their return to Downton. Mary had convinced Matthew that Anna should stay on with them, for discretion's sake, and he found it a blessing when the maid took care also of his bed in the dressing room. It was better that way, to ease the worry of questions; for Matthew didn't know how he could explain to anyone (even Molesley) why he could not sleep with his wife. He threw himself afresh into his work, claiming that he had much to catch up on after having lost time with wedding preparations and then their honeymoon. Mary faced a greater challenge, and was relieved when Isobel spent most of her days busy with occupation in the village, to save the prospect of uncomfortable afternoons with little to do or look forward to. Arranging and sending thank you cards for their wedding gifts mercifully occupied her for some time, and the rest then was spent visiting her mother, sisters or grandmother for tea.

This could not occupy her continually, though, and out of curiosity she accepted Isobel's invitation to accompany her on some occasions. After all, now that Mary's future as Countess was definite, she thought it as well to develop more active interests in the village, and it gave her business to talk about with her mother-in-law who did seem keen to befriend her. While Mary's inclination at first in self-protection was to resist this, it wasn't long before she decided it would be far preferable to have a friend in the house if her own husband could not be.

Meal-times, they quickly found, were the most difficult times. It was easier when they dined at the Abbey, as Matthew found comfort in his dealings with Robert and their discussions of the estate, and so he and Mary could relax their pretence of being blissful newlyweds for a while. At Crawley House it was more difficult, over breakfast and dinner, and they settled into an unspoken arrangement where most of their conversation was each directed at Isobel, which lent an illusion of inclusive chatter.

But an illusion was all it was. The distance forced and carefully maintained between them had quickly dulled their anguish into numbness, though it was still… terribly, terribly miserable. However accomplished their efforts were to be in the same room and get on with each other without either arguments or tears, they were not _happy_. Happiness was an illusion that simply could not be fabricated or pretended.

It was only a matter of weeks into their marriage that Isobel, devotedly watchful of both her son and his wife, began to realise this.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thanks ever so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I think this chapter may be the saddest thing I've written. Possibly. I'd love to know what you thought, and your feedback is tremendously appreciated! Thank you!_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: _Happy Monday! _

_Thank you again, so much, for all your brilliantly thought-provoking feedback, it means the world to me. Thanks as ever to EOlivet for her endless support, and for making sure this chapter was coherent as I wrote all but the first 300 words between midnight and 6am this morning... Slightly idiotic of me, perhaps, but if I hadn't finished it then I wouldn't have had another chance till Thursday, and I didn't want you to have to wait that long!  
_

_Without further ado, enjoy...!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve  
**

Sleep fled from Matthew too early, as it had for weeks now, and the burgeoning spring sunlight seemed to him like a personal insult in the face of his own miserable state. He squeezed his eyes shut against it. With the beginnings of springtide, life seemed to be blossoming everywhere, in stark, rotten contrast to how hardened, dulled… deadened, he felt himself. _Mary_…

He heard her rise in the next room, heard her gasping, ragged breaths followed by the splash of cleansing water. As always, he felt an accusatory, unforgiving clench of his gut in response. As always, he quickly gave up on trying to reclaim any lost sleep as the thoughts that taunted his restless, inactive mind were too cruel to bear.

Wearily hauling himself out of bed, he rang for Molesley and waited, his head dropping into his hands.

Mary, in the room beside him, rose as well. She was _tired_, so… dreadfully tired. Of all of it. She passed a hand over her face and sighed… It wouldn't be getting easier any time soon. She had to talk to Matthew… Whether he would listen or not, she really didn't know. It pained her to see him so distant, so withdrawn. And she was so terribly confused because he wasn't _angry_ with her, that she could tell, but then… she didn't know _what_ he felt. To see his face would be to judge that he felt nothing, almost, as if to feel anything at all would simply be too much and so he had just… stopped. And it was that, more than anything, that broke her heart, day after day.

Still, no matter how her husband felt (or she, for that matter), there was something they couldn't very well avoid for very much longer. As Anna dressed her, and she tried to pat some colour back into her cheeks and mask the tired circles under her eyes with powder, she thought hard. It seemed a nigh on impossible task to actually have a moment alone with Matthew to talk to him at all, these days. There was no opportunity among their family in the evenings, and at night… No. She couldn't face his rejection in the false, mocking intimacy of what should be their bedroom again. She closed her eyes and sighed heavily, and in the quiet that followed as Anna wordlessly set her hair, she faintly heard Matthew's usual, kindly dismissal of Molesley as he finished his morning preparations in the next room.

When he heard a quiet tap on the door, Matthew naturally assumed it was Molesley who'd forgotten to take his shirt that needed mending downstairs.

"Come in," he muttered distractedly, peering through narrowed eyes at the reflection of his fingers working the knot in his tie, which he'd decided to re-do himself not because Molesley had done it unsatisfactorily but simply because he found it comforting to do so, which was hardly something he could share with his valet.

His fingers stilled as Mary came in, a chill tension making him incapable even of breathing for just a moment.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," she offered softly. Her fingers lingered on the doorframe, flexing anxiously, before she came fully in and closed the door.

"Not at all, it's quite alright." His eyes swept over her, and a shadow of concern crossed his expression before it set again to a despondent and forced neutrality… a depressing necessity of his shame. "You look tired," he murmured. "I heard you being… unwell, this morning, do you think you should see Doctor Clarkson?"

"I am tired," she shrugged, and dropped her eyes from his face to her own twisting hands. "And sometimes 'unwell', as you so delicately put it; but it's hardly worth worrying poor Clarkson over. I'm with child, Matthew, and it's only to be expected."

He flinched defensively. "I know that! It's just…" For a moment his voice softened, before he seemed to lose his nerve and turned stiffly away from her, making a study of his cufflinks on the side. "It doesn't matter. But I hope you're alright."

She wanted to shake him. _Alright_? How could he hope that she was _alright_, and be so disinclined to do anything about it if she wasn't? Fobbing her off to Clarkson for her sickness was hardly caring, and her throat stung with bitterness.

"I suppose I'm managing. But I suppose that's what I'd wanted to talk to you about – as you say, I'm sure I do look tired, and you can't be the only one who might notice it."

"What do you mean?" he frowned, looking back at her, and her hardened expression made him cold.

She spoke carefully. "I mean that we must announce it soon."

Matthew blanched, the colour draining from his cheeks.

"We can't, Mary. Not yet. It's too soon –"

"Too soon!" she laughed incredulously. "Matthew, after three months it's hardly soon enough! I won't be able to hide it for very much longer and then –"

"But we've only been married a month, and barely that!" His hands started to shake and he curled his fingers into tense fists. She was right, he knew that objectively, but even so every part of him screamed to maintain the protection of their secret. Things were difficult enough as it was without having to face the scrutiny of their family on this most intimate news. A cold, childlike fear seemed to grip him in a panicked vice, however vain he knew it to be.

He looked pleadingly at Mary. "They'll know, surely –"

His wife rolled her eyes, tiring of his resistance. "Well, yes, they probably might but I'm afraid there isn't a lot we can do about that. It will be obvious enough soon anyway, and we can hardly pretend it when the baby arrives a full two months earlier than it possibly could, don't you see that? It's best to get it done with."

"How can you be so uncaring about it?" Matthew exclaimed, struggling to quiet his tone in the awakening household. "Mary, if people suspected –"

"What?" she cut back at him irritably. "For heaven's sake, what do you expect will happen? Mama already knows my situation, though not about you, and as we are married there can be nothing to come of it but whispers, if that. The child will be legitimate as we are married, and after all isn't that what everyone had wanted for us?"

"That's – beside the point! I couldn't bear for them to think that… we were so immoral." He couldn't bear for his mother to think it, for Lord Grantham to think it, to have to face the shame of their knowledge…

Mary laughed harshly. "But we _were_! And there's no going back on it now, so you'll have to simply be a man about it and bear it, for there's nothing else to be done."

Matthew pressed his lips together, trying desperately to calm down as he reeled from her frankness. The fact that she was right only cut him more deeply with shame. The bitter and perceived slight on his masculinity wounded him, and more so as he thought of how she must hold him in comparison to… the other. And again, unwanted images pounded relentlessly into his mind as he withdrew from himself, despising the shell of a man he had become. She was right, and he was weak.

"I know," he finally bit out through clenched teeth, resting both hands on the table top as Mary wilted against the door. "I know, we have no choice, and that you're right, it must be soon. Just… not yet. I need some time to be able to face them all, it's… difficult."

"Difficult? And I suppose you think I find it all so easy!" She wanted to do more than shake him, now, she wanted to slap him, and hard. But… the ache in her chest at his anguish overwhelmed her anger, and she felt instead only terribly sad and run-down. She was so _tired_ of it all. "Do you suppose I find any of this _easy_? Yes, Matthew, it is difficult, for you and for me. I made a – mistake, I made many of them, and you can well believe that I'm paying dearly for it every single day. Yes, it is _difficult_, but we are stuck with the choices we have made."

Matthew turned his face from her as his expression hardened bitterly.

"So it seems," he muttered quietly. Shaking his head, he straightened his tie, shrugged his jacket back on and walked to the door, his eyes downcast. He stopped beside her, body thrumming with tension. "I'm going down to breakfast, I can't think about this now. We'll tell them soon, I promise."

"Thank you."

As she stared blankly at the floor, she found herself noticing how close their hands were as he stood beside her, and a breath of a sigh escaped her lips. Matthew had seen, too, and as he watched her fingers flexing with an entranced fascination, the only thing he could think of was why this was only so _difficult_, this whole mess, because… he had fallen in love with her so hard, and so fiercely. If he hadn't… then he would not feel such an anguish that threatened to tear him apart, he was sure of it, and this would all be so much easier. If he hadn't allowed himself to believe…

"You weren't the only one to have made a mistake, you know," he whispered fiercely before slipping past her and into the coolness of the hallway.

* * *

Breakfast was terse, even more so than usual, and as Isobel sat down she could practically feel the unpleasant tension radiating from her son and his wife. They ate wordlessly between them, and she watched them… Mary's eyes cast despondently on her poached eggs and Matthew's with unnecessary fixation on his newspaper, though he had not turned the page for a full fifteen minutes.

She buttered her toast carefully. "Anything interesting in the paper this morning, my dear?" she asked when no more diverting conversation seemed forthcoming.

"What? Oh. No," he glanced up distractedly, then laid it aside and began tucking into his breakfast with unusual vigour as he answered her.

"Oh, you seemed to be rather engrossed, that's all," she said innocently. "I assumed it must be something fascinating!"

He chuckled lightly; a smile, at last. "Not at all… I'm just dealing with a – pretty complicated case at work, and it's distracting me rather." He shunted his food around his plate, not looking at either woman beside him.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Isobel carried on in her motherly fashion. She was worried; he'd been working so hard recently and the effects were becoming palpable. "But you mustn't let it take up too much of your time outside of work, my dear; you've commitments at home as well –"

"Oh please, Mother…" he muttered brusquely, and she frowned. She wouldn't have thought she needed to prompt him to spend time with his wife, but at the moment he seemed almost entirely oblivious to her, and that certainly wasn't right. It troubled her, a great deal, but she was loathe to create a scene about it at the breakfast table.

Mary cut in. "I think dear Matthew has a tendency to see things as far more complicated than they truthfully are. But then I don't know, perhaps that helps in the field of law." She shrugged delicately and smiled, as if she'd hoped to pass off the comment affectionately, before spearing another forkful of eggs.

Isobel raised her eyebrows in vague amusement, noticing the tightness of Matthew's smile in response.

"On the contrary," he said slowly, still without looking at either of them, "I like to think that I pay things the due attention they deserve, that's all. Anyway I must go, I suppose I'll be back at the usual time. Goodbye…"

He folded his newspaper carefully, rose, and quickly kissed both his wife and mother on the cheek, only the barest brush of his lips as they bid him goodbye.

They finished themselves not long after, and went into the sitting room. Feeling too drained for anything else, Mary picked up a fashion magazine to flick idly through for a while, supposing that she'd do something more productive a little later on. Perhaps she'd distract herself by visiting with Isobel; the fresh air would probably do her some good…

"What are your plans for today?" she asked her mother-in-law brightly, thinking to that end. "Do you think you'll visit the Ambler's cottage again? I'd quite like to join you if you are, providing you wouldn't mind."

"I wouldn't mind at all, my dear!" Isobel looked quietly thrilled, and sat down across from Mary. Her needlework was in her hands but she placed it down into her lap, and suddenly looked very serious. "I do plan on going across later, but… if you'll allow me to be frank, Mary, I'd rather like to know what's wrong before I think of any of that."

"What's… wrong?" Mary blinked, wide-eyed and on edge."Whatever do you mean?"

Isobel's lips pursed in a manner frighteningly similar to Matthew's, and Mary saw at once that she would not get out of this easily. She moistened her lips and waited, mustering all the unaffected innocence she could.

"I mean, what's wrong between Matthew and yourself." Isobel saw Mary's mouth open to protest, so carried on before she could manage it, holding her hand up. "I'm afraid that I'm just as stubborn as he is, so there's no point pretending otherwise. You aren't happy, my dear, and neither is he, and I suspect that's been the case for some time. Am I right?"

Every ounce of independence and self-preservation within Mary urged her to hold fast to her pretence, but… Isobel was right. A pretence was all it was. But how could she admit that, to Matthew's mother? That their marriage was a miserable sham? She could argue, she could protest, she _wanted_ to, but… she was so _tired_ of arguing, of pretending, of being unhappy.

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed her, and when her lips parted to reply all that came out was a sob, before her head dropped into her hands. Every feeling, each one of disappointment or rejection or shame or guilt, that she had locked away within her breast and forbidden now released, in a wave of crushing misery that spilled out in her tears.

She was barely aware of the settee dipping beside her as Isobel moved to her side, or of the older woman's arm coming comfortingly about her shoulders. When she did notice it, Mary realised that it was the first real embrace with any affection that she'd received since marrying Matthew, and her sobs wracked from her shuddering chest all the harder.

"Oh, Isobel!" she cried, trying desperately to wipe the tears from her cheeks even as more fell. "I'm – sorry, I –"

"Hush, dear, don't apologise," Isobel soothed her gently, waiting for her to calm. Mary's heart swelled with her distress and Isobel's kindness, coming so naturally, and she wondered idly in the midst of her tears if she'd ever comforted Matthew such, when he was little. It led her to wonder how she would comfort her own child, but… she was not ready, not _nearly_ ready enough to comprehend caring for it when she was so distraught herself. She couldn't do it, and not… alone.

Isobel rubbed her back in warm, wide circles, and passed Mary a handkerchief with which she dabbed quietly at her eyes. "Believe it or not, I very much want you both to be happy," Isobel said quietly. "It's very hard to see you both in such tension, and I simply can't understand what can have caused a rift between you so soon. Matthew loves you –"

"Does he?" Mary sniffed quietly. "I think he did, at one time. But now…"

Isobel frowned affectionately. "Of course he does! You know as well as I do the fuss he made over the prospect of you or one of your sisters being pushed at him, and I know how you were equally opposed to it – I don't know what you've argued about but you must believe that he loves you if he married you!" She thought back to Matthew's questions about love, and how besotted he'd been… Yes, she was sure. How could that have been laid aside? "Have you argued, is that it?" she asked gently. It could be an adjustment, she knew, to suddenly have to share your life with somebody, in all and intimate areas, and it wasn't uncommon that newlywed couples should argue. If that was all…

"Yes, we've argued." Mary twisted her hands in her lap, the delicate lace of the handkerchief twining around her fingers and sighed. Oddly, she felt a certain liberty in releasing this. For so long her troubles had consumed her from within, trapped and toxic, locked within her mind, with Matthew's scorn the only outlet. She shuddered again as she wept. "But it's so – hopeless!"

"Now, you mustn't say that!" Isobel tried to smile reassuringly. "I know that when you are newly married, all those little issues seem like the most important thing in the world and so you fight over them – but _you_ are far more important than those things, and when you each remember that they will fall into place."

If only it were that easy! Mary's heart clenched.

"Please, Isobel – you're so kind, but you don't know –"

"No, my dear, I don't. And I don't need to, it's between you and Matthew. Whatever it is, though, will be put in its proper perspective if you let it. If Matthew loved you, enough to want to spend his life with you and marry you –"

"But he didn't!" Mary stood up, agitated, twisting her fingers together in distress as she paced to the fireplace. Another sob broke from her, and she turned to see the shock in Isobel's expression. Mary had grown fond of her, even so soon, and though she was trying to help, she… couldn't understand…

"What can you mean?" She said, as if to voice Mary's precise thoughts. As Mary's face crumpled again, the handkerchief lifting to her mouth, Isobel stood and came to stand with her, squeezing her hands tightly. "Tell me, Mary dear. I want to help you, please let me."

To let her, though, would be to destroy her opinion of her son. Her devotion to and pride of him was obvious, and Mary's heart broke a little even at the thought of tainting that with their broken truth.

She never meant to tell her. Certainly, if sound of mind and not fogged with anguish, Mary would never have chosen to. It wasn't fair. But standing before her now, seeing her imploring face, her body crying out for release… she couldn't hold it in any longer. She needed an ally, and while Mary knew that Isobel may well hate her for the truth (even a partial truth), she could hardly be more miserable than she was at the moment. And so, before she had even consciously thought of it, the words were tumbling from her lips.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a small, broken voice. "I wish that I could tell you otherwise, but Matthew didn't marry me because he loved me. It was because he had to."

At first, Isobel didn't understand. She frowned, confused, and as Mary's expression wearily resigned itself, Isobel noticed where her hand had instinctively dropped to rest. Clues began to slot together in Isobel's mind, all her instincts as a nurse on sudden high alert, and she realised how she could have missed the signs before now. She sat down again, dropping unceremoniously to the settee, her lips parted in shock.

"But, I –" she stammered, trying to wrap her mind around it even as her own mind pushed the very though forcefully away. Of course she knew these things happened, but… _Matthew_… That her own dear boy, whom she'd brought up to be moral and right and good, and caring and loving, that he should… She shook her head in disbelief.

Mary needed no mothering instincts to understand Isobel's sudden stupor.

"I'm so very sorry," she said quietly, making no move from the fireplace. "I can't conceive how disappointed you must be, and I can only reassure you that Matthew is in every way the gentleman and the… the good man that you have always believed him to be… and I love him very dearly." Her voice was choked with tears of shame and regret. "Please, you mustn't let this change your opinion of him, because he cares so deeply for it."

While Isobel was silent for some time, Mary could only assume that she was too consumed with disappointment to bear a response. Feeling weak with her own despair, and the fact that Isobel was now dragged into it as well, Mary turned her face away… and was startled when she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

"There is one thing I don't understand," Isobel said quietly.

When Mary looked at her, she recognised the light she'd seen in Matthew's eyes as he'd begged her to tell him he was wrong about what she had done. And just as she'd not been able to lie to him, she felt her resolve slipping into exhaustion as his mother now faced her.

"Only one!" she smiled wryly, at a loss for what else to say.

Isobel pursed her lips. "I know… that Matthew loved you. You needn't ask me how, but you said it yourself as well, and I believe that he must have for… things to have progressed between you in such a manner. You claim with such fervour that he is a good man, so I presume to understand that when you told him you were with child, he proposed to marry you."

"Yes, that's right," Mary nodded weakly. She supposed, at least, that Matthew now needn't worry about his mother's reaction to their announcement… but that was not to worry about now.

"I see," Isobel continued. It still did not add up, in so many ways. "Forgive me, my dear, but if Matthew loved you enough to – well – I can't understand why you've suggested he didn't want to marry you, despite the… unfortunate circumstance. The long and the short of it seems to be that you were both in love, and now you are husband and wife with a little one expected. And if Matthew is half the good man I have believed him to be, he wouldn't turn away from you now, he'd be overjoyed at the prospect of a child and a family with the woman he loves."

"I suppose you're right, he would." In fact, Mary knew instinctively, there was no suppose about it. She swallowed thickly past the lump in her throat. Despite knowing the desperate shame of her plight, she felt a sudden and desperate urge to rid herself of the secret. In a wild, reckless passion, she didn't care if Isobel would hate her. She didn't care if she would join with Matthew and look at her always with such reproach, she would leave if she had to, she simply… couldn't bear it any more. Not this awful misery, the rottenness of living as Matthew's wife only to feel trapped and shunned, knowing that he had loved her and now could not bear to look at her. It was intolerable, and if she had to bear this child alone, well, in this moment she half wondered if that might not be preferable. All she could think of was that she was sick of _this_.

Her lip trembled, and she led Isobel gently to sit down again before she stared into her lap. The words came as if not from herself, and she listened calmly to her own voice. "I wish I could tell you anything otherwise," she began, "but I'm afraid the issue is rather more complicated than that."

* * *

When Matthew arrived home from work that evening, not so much later than usual, the sun was beginning to set and his bicycle cast a long shadow on the gravelled roads. All the way home, he'd braced himself for facing Mary, as he knew he would inevitably have to this evening. He'd been thinking, in fact it had plagued him all day, and he'd come to see that they should simply bite the bullet and announce her condition. It _was_ becoming more obvious, and at least once it was out, well… he could deal with it, then.

He pushed open the door with a sigh, smiled and Molesley and passed over his things.

"Thank you," he said gently. "Is my mother in? And Lady Mary?"

"Both are in, Sir, so far as I know," Molesley replied. "Shall I fetch you some tea?"

"Yes, please."

He wandered into the sitting room and found his mother, sitting pensively with some barely touched embroidery on her knee. The light wasn't even on, and he quickly rectified that.

"Hello," he smiled tightly, and kissed her on the cheek, surprised when she didn't smile back at him. He frowned, but didn't think much of it. "Where's Mary?"

"She's upstairs, resting." She waited until he had sat down, and looked at him, trying to understand him as she now knew him, praying that he might still prove her wrong.

"Are you quite alright, Mother?" Matthew asked, noticing the hard glint in her eyes and the set of her mouth. A look that had, as a small boy, set fear into his heart when he knew he was due to be scolded, and that sometimes – evidently – still could. "What is it?"

Isobel laced her fingers together in her lap and tapped her thumbs, waiting for a moment to best choose her words.

"I was wondering," she eventually said, in all manner of calmness, "just when you are going to stop punishing your wife for her one mistake of allowing the advances of Kemal Pamuk." As Matthew's eyes widened, his jaw slackening in desperate, humiliated shock, she carried on. "And when you are going to accept responsibility for her child, whether it is your own or not."

**TBC**

* * *

****A/N: _Thank you ever so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, and of course I'd love to know what you thought! And now I think I shall get some more sleep... :P Thank you!_


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: _Greetings! Here we are again. Thank you so much for your responses to the previous chapter - I'm overwhelmed, truly. I apologise for having not responded individually, I've spent three days marathoning Downton and thought I'd reward myself by cracking out this chapter, so I hope you'll forgive me :)_

_To those of you who were anticipating Isobel giving Matthew what-for, please know that I enjoyed writing this immensely... Thanks as ever to EOlivet for her enthusiasm, support and polish!  
_

_Enjoy..!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

The heat of burning shame scorched through Matthew's veins, holding his heart still like ice as he registered the accusation and his mother's fierce, unyielding stare.

"What?" he choked, then leapt to his feet. His first instinct was defence, retaliation, sharp indignation at being called out so coldly and that his mother… _knew_… He stammered back, glaring into the fire, shaking. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't – understand."

Isobel rose to match him. "I know quite enough to understand, Matthew." Her voice bristled with anger as she saw his expression, fists, shoulders, all tighten. "I know that you allowed yourself to get carried away with your passions and take intimacy with Mary before you should have done. I know that you were stubborn when she argued with you, though she won't blame you for that now. I know that she responded foolishly by flirting with Mr. Pamuk, and what happened later that night. I know that you did the right thing by taking her as your wife when she told you of her pregnancy, as well you should have done. And I know that you are both suffering in misery from it all now."

She watched him wilt before her with hard eyes, unsympathetic of his plight under the weight of his own transgressions. For a moment, she wavered, grieving for the boy her son had been… but only for a moment. "I understand why you are hurt by it," she said, a little more gently. "And I do not blame you for… having been with her, however foolish it might have been. You loved her, and of course it is terrible to suspect that the child she carries was given by another man."

When Matthew at last turned to look at her, she had to pause to draw breath at his wide, pained, child-like eyes, thoroughly cowed by her tirade. His dear, distraught blue eyes, that seemed now the only thing she recognised of her son, a man worn and changed by guilt. How had she not seen this for so long?

Too hot by the fire, hot with his own shame, Matthew prised his fingers from their grip on the mantelpiece and paced to the window. The glass was cooler against his forehead, and he drew a shuddering breath.

"Mother… I'm so sorry," he whispered, his barely audible voice thick with regret.

"Don't be," she snapped back at him, steeling herself against his anguish. "I just said that I don't hold you to account for all that. But what I don't understand, Matthew, what I _cannot_ understand and will not condone, is your despicable treatment of Mary since your marriage. You took her, for good or ill; you made your choice in her and now you must live with it. You are her husband, Matthew, and you are failing her and disappointing me. You can't carry on as you are."

His jaw flexed, and he flamed with indignation, stiffening at her disapproval.

"Don't lecture me, Mother! So you know the unhappy circumstance of my marriage, now, but how it goes on is none of your business!"

"It is _every_ bit of my business while we all share the house under this roof and I must live with your insistence on punishing Mary for one evening's transgression, for which she could not be sorrier if you would only take the time to listen to her!"

Matthew glowered. "I'm not – _punishing_ her! For God's sake, do you think me entirely heartless?"

Isobel's eyebrows shot up derisively, and Matthew sighed, seeming to sink into himself. He moved to the settee and sat down slowly, his brusqueness replaced with a more quiet sorrow. "I'm not – I don't – _blame_ her, I'm not angry with her for what she did, whether you believe that or not."

"Well your actions hardly bear that –"

"Mother! I know… that it was my fault we argued. And if she thought she loved him –"

"Heavens, is that what you think?" Isobel gasped, incredulously. "Matthew, do you have any idea of what actually went on between them?"

"I know enough," he muttered coldly. What more did he need to know? Than that she had brought him to her bed, he had not forced her, their bodies together and naked and intimately joined in the shadows… It was enough. "I know that it happened willingly, and I have no desire for any more detail than that."

"Well, I think you should!"

"Why _should_ I?" It angered him that his mother should claim more knowledge of Mary's intimacies than himself, that she should dare to tell him how to think about it. It was his love that had been shattered, his faith destroyed… But Isobel had no care and no patience for his self-pity.

"Because you do not understand it, and it was not what you think," she snapped, sitting down tersely and clenching her hands in her lap.

Matthew bristled angrily. "Enlighten me, then, because as I see it –"

"That," his mother cut him off sharply, "is a conversation you must have with your wife, and not with me. And whatever the truth of Mary's actions, that is done with and in the past, and it is _your_ actions now that disappoint me, Matthew."

"I don't mean to _punish_ her, Mother, I don't – mean to be cruel." He shifted, uncomfortable under his mother's reproachful gaze. Truthfully he was disappointed in himself, he just… didn't know how to deal with it. He'd sunk too far into his own pit of despair and could no longer find his way out.

"Well, you are being." Isobel watched him shrink into himself without pity. He'd had too much of that already, and mostly from himself, she knew. It was a trait she'd known in his father, when in the wrong, and she'd found quickly in both that softness was not the way to draw them from it. "Wrong she may have been, but are you going to hold it against her forever? Will you go the rest of your life without touching her, or showing her any affection, or even any interest? I know that you think you're saving the both of you from your pain, but you're wrong." Her eyes bored into his cheek that was turned away from her, his lips thinly pressed together and downturned. In the corner of her vision were his fingers, tight on the arm of the settee. Agitation simmered from him, his lips and fingers and shoulders, his very breath was tight. But she pressed unforgivingly on. "You married her, my dear, and you must live _with_ her. Or do you wish for your child to grow up in this hateful atmosphere, without knowing love?"

The shift in focus made Matthew grimace.

"I… don't, of course not! I don't want the baby to suffer at all from our – stupidity, but – you know very well that it might not be _my_ –"

"Oh, Matthew!" Losing patience, Isobel flung her hands in the air and fixed him with her most devastating frown. "If not yours then whose child _shall_ it be? Tell me that!"

"Mother you _know_ that –"

"_Yes_, Matthew, I understand the biological uncertainty, but that's beside the point now. I am asking you who that child's father _will be_. If the unfortunate babe comes with dark hair and an eastern complexion will Mr. Pamuk resurrect himself to care for it? Hmm?"

"No!" Matthew squirmed under her ferocity. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, then!" She sat back triumphantly, but Matthew continued to frown at her. Really, she sighed, he was so sunk in his gloom that he could not see his nose for his face. "Who, Matthew? Tell me."

He pursed his lips for a moment, lost as he stared thoughtfully across the room into the depths of his own heart. Isobel smiled, as the stiffness of his posture suddenly eased, and when he turned she saw again in his eyes that flash of her boy, her son whom she loved so dearly. For a few, horrible hours, he'd been a stranger to her; she had not known him. She would never have imagined that her darling boy could take a lover, could drive himself to a situation where he felt forced to marry, that he could conceal so much from her. But he _was_ her boy, he still was, no matter what he had done, and if only he could accept where he had brought himself and move on from there… then there was hope.

At last, he came back to himself. "Me, I… suppose," he said, in a small and painfully quiet voice.

It was a powerful realisation for Matthew, and one that he saw was long overdue. And it changed… everything. Not quite everything, but… nearly.

"Yes, my dear boy." She smiled, reached across and squeezed his hand. The contact stirred something deep within him and he startled. "You are Mary's husband, and you will be father to her child, and… you must start acting as such." Feeling exhausted from the strain of clearing the fog in his mind, she sighed, and pushed herself to her feet. She made as if to leave, but before she quite left she stopped, and kissed Matthew's head, closing her eyes and cherishing the scent and feel of his hair that was the same as it ever had been.

She straightened. "Now, I'm going up to change. Go and talk to your wife, please, and do listen to her as well. Such low spirits aren't good for her health, or the baby's, so… for all our sakes, Matthew. Please do try."

For the first time that evening, Matthew's expression turned from a dour, frustrated grimace to something softer, almost a smile but not quite. He blinked up at her.

"I will, Mother."

As she left the room he took a deep breath, and then a few moments later got up and took a brandy. He had to try. Try to… _what_? He wasn't even sure. To reclaim the closeness they had once shared, with all its wit and laughter and intimacy, seemed an impossible goal after all that had gone between them. He worried he had burned all their bridges. And still he could not shake the… insult, the rejection of what she had done with Pamuk, but… they were to have a child, and his mother was right. However poorly they had acted, the baby must not suffer for it. Of that, Matthew was sure.

Slowly, he went upstairs, one step, then another, each one calming him and strengthening his resolve, which was a blessed relief as he was still terribly, terribly unsure. Of himself, of the future, of everything.

* * *

The hesitant tap on the bedroom door shook Mary from her gentle slumber. She sat up quickly, worrying for how long she'd asleep, regretting the movement as soon as she'd made it. Pressing a hand to her lips, she swallowed, sat up against the pillows a little straighter, and coughed.

"Yes?" Her voice was weak and croaky from sleep, and she swallowed again. It must be Anna to enquire about dinner, but she wasn't sure she could eat a thing. She felt as though she'd slept for most of the day.

"It's me," Matthew hovered unsurely in the doorway, and Mary stiffened. "May I come in?"

"Of course you can." She refrained from reminding him that it was, after all, his bedroom and instead leaned to the bedside cabinet to light the lamp. Shadows flickered across her face, and she settled back, smoothing the covers nervously.

"Thank you." He came in, closed the door, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. He seemed out of place, which in itself seemed somehow ridiculous, and he idly flexed his hands. "So, you told Mother…"

She drew a sharp breath, expecting his anger, but… his voice was softer than that, and an odd sort of smile touched his lips. She frowned, and pressed her lips together.

"I hope you'll forgive me, she's rather… tenacious, and I couldn't –"

"I know." He took another step closer, and Mary glanced anxiously at her hands. But, then… "I won't – forgive you, Mary, I should – thank you, really."

"What?" she gasped.

But he didn't answer her. He barely seemed to look at her, and she frowned gently as he came towards her. He made as if to perch on the bed beside her, but at the last minute re-crossed the room and fetched a chair, drawing it close to the bed and sitting down. His hand rested on the eiderdown, and her own fingers twitched reflexively in response.

Though she couldn't define it, he was changed, and her pulse fluttered in her throat. Tension still ached from his skin, but it was… different. It no longer seemed to bruise her, or shield him from her, it was not such a barrier but it was there nonetheless. She watched his hand as it moved, her entire arm tensing up to her shoulder in anticipation but… he reached past her hand, and rested his palm very gently upon her abdomen.

Mary's breath stopped in her throat, and she looked sharply at him for some indication of his mind, but there was only a gentle frown. His hand flexed gently, she felt it, and fought the urge to cover it with her own. His touch was… gentle, and so powerful that heat spread to her very toes; a warm, pleasant heat that made her heart feel full and tears spring to her eyes.

His touch had said it eloquently enough, as little as Mary understood his heart behind it.

"Your – baby…" he said, terribly quietly, almost reverently. And he looked at her, and she at him, and she swallowed nervously.

"Yes?"

Matthew looked down at his hand on Mary's belly, his lip quirking oddly. "It'll be mine, and… I'll be its father."

"Oh, Matthew…" she breathed. Regret stabbed in her heart, and she frowned. "You can't know –"

"I do." Still, he didn't look at her, and after a moment he shrugged gently. "I will have to be."

He shivered, withdrew his hand sharply, and the air between them felt cool. He stood up.

Mary watched him, across the room. She could barely think, she was transfixed by him, and whatever mental battle was going on in his mind. He was trying, she could feel it, and her body felt light with relief. Where his hand had rested now felt cold, bereft, and she rubbed her belly gently. Still flat, just about, still bearing her secret, and now just a little the shame that had covered it too began to lift. Just a little.

"Thank you," she said quietly, still watching him. "I know that you don't love me as you did but –"

"What happened?"

He turned, suddenly, looking conflicted. Standing fixedly at the foot of the bed, his face cast in shadows, he appeared like some figure of judgement looming over her, and Mary felt herself shrink back from him. He'd hated her, he'd been right to, she'd treated him abominably… She was so tired.

"What do you mean?" she asked wearily.

I mean –" He stopped, and swallowed, and she saw the skin of his throat shift with the movement. His lips pressed together, then parted, then pressed together again, and his eyes narrowed. Mary closed her eyes and sighed gently, concentrating on each breath (in time with his, she could hear them) until he spoke, his voice tight and laced with discomfort. "What happened. Between you, and… Pamuk. What did he do?"

Mary's eyes flew open to meet his, which were dark and troubled and strained.

"Matthew, you don't want to know that," she frowned. "It doesn't matter _what_ happened, just that it did, you mustn't – trouble yourself over it."

"But it _does _trouble me!" His fist clenched agitatedly by his side, and his jaw tightened. "It troubles me very much, and I – need to know… please."

She looked away, unable to face him, torn with unease. Just when he was coming to terms with this, with her… must they relive _that_? She wanted nothing more than to forget it had ever happened, surely that was what he wanted too? She only wanted to bury it forever, deeply, irretrievably, in some dark pit that would match the blackness of that man's soul, where it could not touch or taint Matthew.

As if he could sense it, somehow, Matthew shifted forwards to lean against the bedpost beside him. The shadow lifted from his face, a little. "Mary, I can't – forget about it, I'm not sure I ever can, but – I think sometimes that my imagination makes it all a lot worse than perhaps it should. Will you – tell me, so that I know?" He smiled weakly, and shrugged. "Better the devil you know…"

"I suppose so," she nodded. Perhaps… this was her chance, her grace, her absolution, or – for her child, if not herself. Talking with Isobel, earlier, she'd begun to acknowledge what had happened with more perspective, though whether Matthew would see that, she wasn't sure. Even so, what could she lose? What little pride she had left would save her if Matthew would still reject her.

Taking a shallow breath, she twisted her wedding ring around her finger to calm her. "I know I was very wrong," she began carefully. "I flirted with him terribly but I never thought… I never meant – for anything more."

She laughed suddenly, and looked up at Matthew, her eyes bright with secret tears that matched his own. "It was stupid, really! I wanted you to see it. I thought you'd spent the day having a marvellous time with Edith and it was unfair, I wanted you – well, to be jealous. I wanted you to know that you weren't the only person I could have, but of course that's ridiculous when you were the only person I wanted. But I was angry, you see."

"I know you were," he said softly, and only a little bitterly. "And I got your message quite clearly."

Mary nodded. "Well, so did Mr. Pamuk, and he took it upon himself to come to me and have me as well. I don't know how he found my room, I hadn't – wanted him there, I certainly hadn't asked him and if I could've made him leave –"

"But I asked you!" Matthew exclaimed, frustrated, distraught. "I asked you if he forced you and you said –"

"Oh, Matthew, he didn't!" she cried, and pressed her palms against her cheeks, hoping they were cooler. They weren't. "I may not have wanted him there but once he was, I… didn't say no. I thought – it would be alright, how it had been with you, but – it wasn't at all." The damp path of her tears shone softly in the lamplight. "He wasn't – like you, he –"

"For pity's sake, stop!" His voice rang desperately out, and Mary pressed her lips together, staring into his narrowed, anguished eyes. "I don't need to – oh, God. Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered bitterly.

Her eyes closed, her voice shaking as she wept. "But it didn't matter, I'd done it, and – you were so angry –"

"Oh, Mary…" And then he was by her side, her small hand pressed between his palms, his thumb stroking, stroking, comforting… She cried harder, brushing her tears roughly away with her other hand. She was so tired of crying, of hurting, of feeling so much for so little, and her heart leapt at his touch.

For some time they were silent. Stilted, gasping breaths stirred the air, and still, his hand clasped hers.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, and then again and again. "I'm so sorry, I should never have –"

"Mary." His name left his lips, almost a caress, even in its firmness. "You – shouldn't have, no, but – neither should I have acted the way I did, and you know I'm sorry for that. And I don't know whether I can forget it, God knows I want to, I wish I could never think of it again but –"

"You can't, I know."

"Even so. I will… try. I've been blind and stupid and for that I'm sorry, truly. But I know what's important now is the future, and… I will try to do right by you. And – for you."

"Why?" She hardly deserved it, she thought, and though his hands still clasped hers warmly she couldn't quite fathom his change of heart. What she had done had not changed, nor the pain it gave him.

He was quite a moment. Then at last, he said, "For our baby. Because… it must not suffer for our trouble." That was it, for the moment, he couldn't think of… more.

Mary nodded, the light squeeze of her hand showing her thanks. She almost missed Matthew's quiet request, the words echoing a memory from what felt like a lifetime ago, though it could only have been months. "Do you think," he whispered, "that… we could just try to be friends again?"

Slowly, breathlessly, she nodded. And he kissed her hand, a gentle and wordless promise. It wouldn't be easy, and heaven knew he wasn't sure that he would ever get past the assault of his imagination, even knowing the truth of it; it had still… happened. And perhaps the reality was even crueller. But… he was damn well going to _try_.

**TBC**

* * *

****A/N: _There we are! They're certainly not over the hill, yet, but they're getting up it. And I realise that was a very odd analogy... Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed it! And of course I'm curious as ever to know what you thought. Thank you so much for reading! :)_


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _Here we are again :) I think - this chapter is rather different in tone to previous chapters, but I hope you'll appreciate it nevertheless! It's an important one in terms of progressing things, so... well, I hope you'll enjoy it!_

_Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments, some really made me laugh out loud, dear Isobel... You're all incredibly kind and thoughtful! I must also particularly thank Silvestria and EOlivet for helping me over a little hurdle in this one, and EOlivet always for her support, polish and enthusiasm!  
_

_Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

The change began in slight measure, at first; barely noticeable. When Mary appeared for breakfast, the gentlest of smiles touched Matthew's lips, and hers in return. He quietly asked how she felt, and – though both Mary and Isobel knew he asked for the sake of the baby, still – it meant something. And when he stood up to bid them goodbye for the day, his lips lingered on his wife's temple for just a fraction, barely even a second, longer than in the past.

As he reached the door, he stilled at Mary's voice.

"Don't forget that my parents have asked us to dine, this evening , will you?"

"Oh," he turned back quickly and shook his head. "No, I – hadn't forgotten. What about you, Mother?"

Isobel took off her spectacles. "I hadn't been planning to, dear, why do you ask?" In truth, she hadn't wanted to cramp their very gently blossoming, new-found ease with each other – if it could be called that, even. Breakfast had felt mildly less terse than before, though that was hardly saying much.

"Would you?" Matthew's lip twitched up to a quietly hopeful smile. "That's, if – you've nothing particular you'd wanted to –"

"No, no, I suppose I can make it if you'd like."

If she'd hoped for some kind of explanation, she was disappointed, as Matthew simply nodded and thanked her.

"I would. Thanks, Mother – well, I'll see you both later."

With a smile for his mother and a more hesitant nod for his wife, Matthew left them to their contemplation of his actions. Isobel wore a puzzled frown, but when she turned to Mary she saw the younger woman's eyes cast down to her plate, and a gentle sigh escape her lips. Surely they could not have hoped for much, so soon; the depth of Matthew's bitterness could not have simply vanished overnight. Both women now realised that as much as his slight gestures that morning had spelled hope, he still remained a long way from being content to stomach even the short car journey to the Abbey alone with his wife.

* * *

As for Matthew, as he cycled to the train station the press of guilt and shame on his shoulders felt lighter than it had for a long time. At the sound of the flitting, twittering birds in the eaves of the village buildings, the smell of fresh flowers bravely airing their shoots over the frost – _life_ – he even managed to raise a smile. Perhaps… he would not be miserable forever. He would not subject a child to that – any child – and as memories of his own childhood pricked in his mind, the happiness and security he had always felt from the love of his parents, he became only more convinced of it. He'd been the foolish one, he and Mary, and as much as resentment still soldered through his veins at the thought of what the Turk had done with her, as if he'd… tainted her very skin, somehow; Matthew knew that an innocent child deserved no less love for it.

Of that he was sure, then, but… what did it mean for his marriage? The thought of how it had begun and his own _cruelty_, as his mother had so coldly but correctly put it, sickened him now. Mary… was a stranger to him, and he knew he had become one to her. He'd made himself one, he'd wanted nothing to do with her, _deserved_ nothing to do with her… and he deserved it even less now, after the way he'd behaved. When he thought of how they had been – only he couldn't. What they'd shared, at the time, had been beautiful… easy… simple. After all that they'd done, how could they go back to that? Matthew didn't deserve such happiness again, not with Mary, and to even think of it made his heart sink again with shame at his own behaviour.

By the time he reached the train station, laid up his bicycle and settled himself in his usual First Class carriage, he tried desperately to soothe his own mind. His mother's reprimands rang in his ears, scolding, blaming, straightening… His actions _now_ mattered. Not what he'd done. Not what _they'd_ done. The future, _their_ future mattered. And he found that the sheer effort of maintaining the thought against his nature had stressed and wearied his mind and body, before the day had even begun.

* * *

When he returned that evening, there was a brisk, nervous energy about him, as though he thought if he let himself relax for just a moment he would derail completely. He hovered at the bottom of the stairs as Mary came down, and now that he bore no secret but a care for her charge he held out his hand to support her down; an action noted by Isobel with a gentle, approving smile.

"You look well," he said quietly, pleased, and Mary blushed a little.

"I'm not at all sure I do, but I'm glad you think so," she smiled wryly, and kept her fingers resting lightly in his hand until he released them, which wasn't until she was safely settled into the car. For a moment she wondered if he'd simply forgotten to release her before that moment; he certainly seemed distracted enough. He smiled at her and Isobel, and though it wasn't the tight, forced, miserable smile of the past weeks it was still not a natural one. But then, she remembered, nothing about this was _natural_. And then, as she so often had done these past weeks, she reminded herself that her expectations of the marital institution had never been particularly high in the first place and so she could only be grateful for… Matthew, and – she really was, terribly grateful, and even more so now that he had at least (and so touchingly) accepted responsibility for her child… come what may.

She was surprised, once they arrived at the Abbey, that Matthew didn't immediately desert her in the drawing room to seek her father. Instead, he remained close by her side, even if his conversation remained slight and quiet, cursory. And when they were ushered through for dinner, his hand touched her elbow, and though her heart skipped a beat at the gesture she couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow an act. She _knew_ Matthew, she knew the naturalness of his touch, and well enough the falsity of it as well but this was… different. Neither.

"Is everything – are you – alright?" she hissed quietly at him as they walked several paces behind Sybil.

"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?" he answered without looking at her; and so he didn't see his wife roll her eyes.

"Do you really want me to list the reasons, Matthew, we'd never get to the dining table!" She sighed, eyes fluttering shut as soon as she'd spoken, anticipating his derision in response. But he surprised her again, by just a smile instead of the taut frown she'd come to expect at her every remark.

His head lowered a little. "I think that would put you out less than it would me, at the moment," and there was a nervous humour in his voice that Mary hadn't heard since… She could hardly remember.

They settled down to dinner, and with the distraction of fine food and (in most cases) hungry stomachs to fill, conversation slowed and eased a little more naturally. For Mary it was effort enough to simply concentrate on each bite, each swallow, only for the sake of the baby because she wouldn't likely bother for herself. While always entirely, absolutely aware of Matthew's presence beside her – without looking she felt it every time he moved, shifted in his chair, lifted his glass or fork, swallowed, spoke – she allowed herself the more comforting distraction of Sybil's chatter beside her.

Talk of charities and frocks and how many women really _were_ getting jobs now seemed all very meaningless to Mary; but these things were important to her sister so she indulged the conversation. It was all more pleasant to talk of than anything she could muster, anyway, and the youthful, innocent enthusiasm of Sybil was a balm to the ache that seemed to linger always in Mary's chest. More than any of that, she missed her… Oh, the Abbey wasn't far to visit but it was no longer _home_, not really, and she hardly felt she could call Crawley House such, either. It was certainly never the sort of home she'd dreamed of or anticipated, and though she could bear the reduction of her expectations for Matthew, it made it… so dreadfully difficult that he had never welcomed her there. Oh, he would've, she knew he would have welcomed her and taken her and loved her, before she had… ruined everything.

She sighed, and beneath the table stroked her belly gently, and then felt Matthew's glance warm the back of her neck. It was all for this; she could bear it for this.

"But Sybil, darling," she shook her head at her sister's latest enthused tirade, "while I think it's terribly noble of you to want Gwen to find a job – though she has a very decent one as it is don't forget –"

"Mary I _know_ that, but it's not what she _wants_ to do!"

"Darling I'm not arguing with that!" Mary touched her sister's arm, placating her. "I'm only cautioning you that however much you might wish something, it – doesn't mean it will happen. Don't set your hopes too high, that's all." She sensed Matthew stiffen on her other side, unconsciously, and rubbed her finger along her the sleek handle of her fork.

Sybil sighed dramatically. "I do see what you're saying, truly I do. But that won't make me any less determined, and I'll keep trying until it happens. I won't give up. There are secretarial jobs every day in the papers, not all suitable but – Matthew?"

"Yes?" Matthew blinked and turned more towards his sister-in-law, as the rest of the table quieted at her louder insistence, curious about the turn of conversation. Mary rolled her eyes and sat back between them.

"Wouldn't there be a place at your law firm for a secretary?" Sybil leaned forwards and looked at him with a determined plea in her large, hopeful eyes. "You must need someone to do – typing, and filing, and things like that?"

Matthew chuckled regretfully. "I'm afraid we've a clerk who takes care of all that, and – sorry as I am to say it, Sybil, my superiors aren't quite so forward thinking as you in that respect." He smiled, and shrugged; an apology. "In any case, I've barely been with them six months, so I'm hardly in a great position to make recommendations on staffing…"

"Oh." Deflated, Sybil slumped back in her chair, but smiled anyway. "Well, if anything should come up –"

"You'll be sure to hear of it. And – you're quite right to keep your hope up – my father used to tell me, quite often I have to admit, that no-one hits the bulls-eye with the first arrow."

She smiled appreciatively. "I suppose you're right! Thank you, Matthew."

While the conversation lulled, Cora laughed good-humouredly.

"I don't know how these things work, of course, but I'd have thought you must have earned some favour with them after this time, Matthew – you seem to work so hard, always."

"I do, but –"

Violet interrupted him, addressing Cora. "There's a very good reason you don't know how these things work, my dear; it all seems very tedious to me."

"Well some people," Isobel defended her son (who was quite content to stay out of the exchange), "prefer not to spend all day, every day, sitting around with little occupation."

"There are many more occupations in the world than involve sitting at desks all day; I am quite sure of that!" the Dowager argued stoutly.

"I hope you're not implying there's anything wrong with that, in fact I think we'd be at quite a loss without those men willing to spend their days at such work!"

As his mother battled with Violet, Matthew grimaced apologetically at Mary, and she accepted his humour with a small smile. For a moment – just a moment – this felt like times past. Then, riling against the rebuttal of her initial question, the Countess cut over them both.

"Whatever our opinions, I think," she said rather more sternly than necessary, "we certainly shan't begrudge Matthew what he chooses to do."

"Well said, Mama!" Sybil grinned, and across the table Edith rolled her eyes.

Cora looked apologetically at Matthew and Mary. "But – you seem to be so swamped, always, Matthew – I do hope they're not taking advantage of your good nature."

"Particularly at such a time," Robert frowned. "I'm sure any professional man wouldn't be so unjust, but you must speak up for yourself, my boy."

Matthew raised his eyebrows, amused, wondering what on earth he'd been trying to do for the last few minutes.

"I've – had a frightful amount to do the past few months, it's true." He nodded slowly, avoiding the heat of his wife's gaze, who alone – but for his mother, now – understood the dismal truth behind his statement. Mary licked her lips and stared down at her hand resting on the table, at her wedding band, the band that had bound Matthew to her and her misery and driven him to his desk.

Matthew, though, hadn't finished. His voice softened. "But – I'm very pleased to say that things are just slackening off, now. I've – caught up with myself, paid my dues, whatever you'd like to call it – and I shouldn't be quite so busy, from now on."

There seemed an audible, pleased sigh, from everyone at the table; but none seemed so pleasantly surprised as Mary or Isobel, who both now stared at Matthew with an adoring wonder.

Edith pulled a face and, not quite looking at her sister, muttered somewhat uncharitably,

"Well, that seems about time considering you've been married a month – perhaps you'll actually be able to spend some time with your wife, sometimes, now!"

Mary glared at her sister, knowing full well that a disgruntled Edith hadn't seen why, now married, Mary should not be busy with her own house and family rather than still bothering them all the time.

She wasn't anticipating her husband's next comment, or the strange, if fraught, tenderness with which he said it. Though it wasn't addressed to her, she felt it, like a thunderbolt to her heart, stopping her breath and contracting her chest as she blamed their wretched child for the tears that threatened to spring to her eyes.

"Yes, that's… exactly what I'm hoping to do."

* * *

The rest of the meal had been quiet, and pleasant. Mary hardly knew what to do with herself beside Matthew, feeling a fluttery, but not unpleasant nervousness from his every word and action that evening. Every so often if she happened to be look at him he would turn and smile, but only quickly before his eyes would drop again. Oh, she could hardly expect much so soon, but… he was willing to try, now, and though it was for the baby more than her she could not begrudge that at all. That he was willing to try, for her child… made her only love him more.

When the plates had all been scraped and emptied, and napkins flung over them in satisfaction, the Earl leaned back in his chair. Cora took her cue.

"We'll go through, and leave these two to their talk of work and estates and things they don't suppose us worthy of hearing…" she smiled fondly.

"Worthy, my darling, but not always very interested," Robert chuckled.

"Actually before you do –" Matthew stood up, suddenly, and Cora sat back down, looking somewhat bewildered. "There's something I'd like to say while we're all still together."

"Oh?"

He was met by confused, but expectant, expressions. Mary realised at once what he was about to say and reached up to touch his hand, looking at him with wide eyes – she hadn't thought he would, not today, not without saying something – but he rubbed his hand over her shoulder, smiled, and kept it there, his palm warm but trembling against her shoulder-blades as he looked to the rest of the party. Mary stared into her lap.

"You see," Matthew began, and she could feel his tension and respected his courage for doing it, even as she braced herself for the backlash of her family. She felt the deep breath Matthew took. "It may come as rather a shock, and I can assure you it did to us as well, but – we're – very excited to tell you that Mary is expecting a baby."

Mary flushed at his careful wording, and held her head high in the breathless silence, whatever the reaction might be, a nervous smile touching her lips.

"Well - my darlings, how wonderful!" Cora gushed, with far too much enthusiasm considering she already knew Mary's secret. "What thrilling news, isn't it, Robert," she smiled overbearingly at her wide-eyed husband until there was only one response he could give.

"Of course it is!" He recovered quickly and stood, taking Matthew's hand and shaking it firmly. "Just what we'd all hoped for, of course, dear chap."

Matthew saw instantly that he would have to work hard to settle the Earl's evident disbelief, but… if worst came to the worst, at least he had confidence in having done the right thing, the honourable thing… Something the Earl must respect, if nothing else. He swallowed, and forced a tight smile.

"Thank you."

"But it's awfully soon," Edith exclaimed loudly amidst the, generally, excited explosion of chatter. The newly-weds looked panicked, their mouths too dry to respond, but Matthew soon was reassured of exactly why he had asked his mother to come, this evening.

"It's not at all too soon to know," Isobel said determinedly, still smiling. "It's hard to be sure at first of course but I am a nurse, and it's actually noticeable very soon, if you know what the signs are."

"Exactly, Edith, we should be pleased instead of questioning it," Cora tried to shush her daughter. She wondered in that moment if Isobel knew, well she must do, and sent her a grateful smile regardless. Luckily Sybil was too dear and innocent to suspect anything of these things (and especially considering the haste of their marriage, dear Lord), and she was pleased to see her youngest hugging her sister excitedly. There was, however, the Dowager to contend with.

Violet chose her moment well, waiting until the commotion had lulled again. She turned her pointed gaze to Matthew, an easier target, and spoke with the confidence of a woman who knows she is right.

"Well, Matthew, I suppose we must congratulate you!"

"Thank you, I –"

"I must say it seems your advice to Sybil was a little hasty, considering you seem to have struck your target with ease… Hasty, indeed!"

"Well –" he blustered, blushing deeply and kicking himself for what he'd thought such encouraging advice now turned so painfully against him. His heart leapt with hope as Edith, of all people, came to his rescue.

"That hardly seems fair, Granny," she said defensively. Matthew's breath of relief, and Mary's quieter beside him, was short-lived as she carried on. "Surely that would only be true if the baby's a boy, don't you think?"

As Mary balked in horror at her sister's unthinking coldness – whether or not the child was a boy was the very _least_ of her and Matthew's problems, one she had barely even had the strength to consider yet – Cora swiftly covered the situation with her usual grace.

"Edith, that's quite enough," she scolded quietly, before her expression softened. "We'll go through, now, I'm sure Matthew and Robert would rather talk in more peace than with all us clucking like mother hens over dear Mary."

"Thank you my dear," Robert smiled, nodding already to Carson for the port as the Countess ushered the women out, and Matthew readied himself for a difficult conversation. Mary, at least, had the support of both her mother and Isobel… but even so, was not expecting her grandmother to let this slide easily. As they parted, they shared a supportive, if nervous, smile, their fingertips brushing together then glancing apart, leaving a remnant of feeling resonating on their skin and in their very hearts long after the door had closed behind the women.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you ever so much for reading :) I know this chapter was rather a shift in tone from those previous, but I hope you'll forgive me for that! I can't help dinners getting carried away :P Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it and I'd love to know what you thought - thank you!_


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: _Happy Monday!_

_Somehow, I'd had the notion of most of this chapter concluding the previous chapter. Clearly, seeing the length this turned out, that wouldn't have worked! Plus it gave me the excuse to write the first scene, which I otherwise wouldn't have. So, yay! :)  
_

_Thank you so much for your continued support (that coming from *me*, not the box at the bottom of the page). I think there's still some issues with reviews not coming through as signed in, so I do apologise if I've not been able to reply to you. You're all darlings. :) Thanks as always to EOlivet and to all of you who've let me natter incessently on at you!  
_

_Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

When the door closed behind the ladies, an oppressive weight seemed to settle in the room. Matthew glanced at Robert, a tight smile, and both men sat back down. He wished the door was open, or better still a window, anything to allow some air to his tightened lungs. Hardly daring to look at the Earl, he picked idly at the prong of his dessert fork, watching the motion, trying to breathe without choking at the smell of cloying food that hadn't even registered his senses only moments earlier and the Earl's freshly lit cigar. He could feel Robert's heavy, thoughtful gaze, relentless, and he couldn't ignore it any longer.

He looked up, smiled nervously, still picking at his fork until Carson offered him the port to occupy his hands instead, fingertips running up and down the smooth glass.

"Well, Matthew," his father-in-law settled more comfortably (and yet not seeming comfortable at all) back into his chair. "That certainly was a shock, but – it's excellent news, excellent news, of course. You and Mary must be thrilled."

Matthew's next breath came just a little easier.

"Thank you. I couldn't have been more shocked myself when Mary told me." That certainly wasn't a lie, Matthew thought, with a dimmed bitterness now. Though he was more at terms with things lately, it still felt a damnable pretence to be excited about it.

He smiled, tipped his head and stared into his port, which he swirled thoughtfully. "But I suppose these things can't be predicted, too much at least, and we've plenty of time to get used to the idea! And, I think… Mary will take to it, when the time comes, quite wonderfully."

At a loss for anything more enthusiastic to say, it was the first time Matthew had allowed himself to consider that… Mary would be a mother. No matter the child's heritage, no matter his own conviction now to be a father to it, Mary was and would be its mother. And now that he did allow himself to think of it, the slightest glimmer of warmth shone like a kernel in his chest, before fear pushed it out once more.

Robert nodded slowly, and for the first time, smiled.

"Certainly; I think she will too, and I'll be proud to see it." He couldn't know how Matthew's heart sank, then, at his misplaced and undeserved pride. But then the Earl sobered, taking a long draw on his cigar as Matthew sipped his port nervously, fingers stilling upon the glass.

He couldn't escape his father-in-law's inscrutable gaze. "And when _did_ Mary tell you, my dear fellow? Are you quite settled with the news yourself, yet?"

Matthew chuckled nervously. "Not at all, I… think I'm beginning to get there but –"

"Because I'd safely bet you've known damn longer than a few days, if that would be your claim." His eyes were suddenly hard, and cold, and Matthew shrank back into his seat as he realised the full authority of the man opposite him.

He couldn't say anything, couldn't lie, couldn't breathe, not now he was faced with it. Robert glowered. "Well? Was it before your wedding; which now I think of it was all fixed in frankly absurd haste?"

"Lord Grantham, please –"

But what justification could he make? His expression betrayed him, and Robert's darkened.

"That's not quite an answer, Matthew." He stubbed the end of his cigar down with the force of an angered father, and Matthew paled. "I believed you – no, _trusted_ you – when you suggested you simply loved my daughter so much that you couldn't bear a delay in being with her. Well, now I see why!"

"I – _did_!" Matthew's heart stung at the harsh, bitterly true words of Mary's father. His pulse quickened with agitation. "I _did_ love her, I would have married her in a moment before I had any idea of her condition…" Trailing off, he swallowed ineffectually. He would have, he _wanted_ to… Only, that was before she'd shattered his heart with the insult of another in her bed, no matter what he now understood of that shame. It hadn't changed the pain.

"But you didn't, until you knew."

"No, there were… reasons," he muttered, voice shaking. He couldn't hold the Earl's gaze and glared miserably into his port. "I did tell you, once, that we'd been very stupid. And I take the blame myself, entirely. You may believe me, Sir, that whatever your feelings it could not be possible to be more disappointed in me than I am in myself. Or to… despise me more for it than I already do."

At that, Robert softened, if only fractionally. Yes, he was disappointed, angry, shocked by the young man he'd thought so… _decent_, and begun to feel such pride in, even after such a short time of knowing him. But, then, to look at his manner now, Robert wondered if his opinions of Matthew before this evening hadn't been right after all. He'd behaved foolishly, damned foolishly, there was no doubt about that. And if he'd hurt Mary… Whatever had gone on between them, though, Matthew's sorrow for it was etched in every part of his despondent figure.

He sighed. "Well. I suppose it's done now. At least you _are_ married –"

"Of course!" Matthew sat up straighter, a faint air of indignation hovering on his tone. "Of course, I – needed no encouragement on that score. I would never – _never_ have deserted her, it would never have occurred to me to do so. You must believe that, at least. I've been wrong, I know, but I have tried – I am _trying_ – to make right of this."

Robert nodded again, slowly, appraising Matthew who licked his lips nervously. He suddenly seemed to remember his port was hardly touched, and drained the glass, finding it fortified him.

"I do believe you," he finally said. "I think so, anyway. But… Prove me right to do so, Matthew. Treat my daughter well, and make her happy."

It was an instruction, a warning, a command; one that Matthew took just as seriously and solemnly as it was given. But then the Earl's expression changed; softened, somehow, his dark frown becoming more thoughtful. And he concluded his plea with, "…and my grandchild, too, when – he, or she, comes."

Those last, quiet words made Matthew smile, too, though it was barely enough to be called a smile. He and Mary _would_ have a child. However it may have come about. And for the first time the thought made him… almost, not quite but definitely _almost_… happy.

He nodded sincerely at Robert. "You can rest assured, Sir, that I will… do my very best to."

* * *

The lights in the drawing room seemed bright, harsh, almost garish in comparison to the softer, more intimate shades of the dining room. Mary felt a little dizzy. Isobel, noticing her slight waver, ushered her to sit down, seating herself beside her.

"Mary are you alright?" Sybil fussed, coming to her other side as the others filed in behind them.

"Of course I'm alright," Mary waved her off. "It's not an illness, darling." Sagging back a little against the soft cushions, she felt terribly grateful just then that she no longer needed to pretend. They _knew_. Because Matthew had –

"Well, Mary, my dear." Violet settled into her seat, resting her hands lightly upon the top of her cane. She looked almost gleeful. Mary sighed, inwardly. "Such happy news! And so soon – how lucky you must be feeling."

"We're all thrilled, of course," Cora continued to smile inanely, playing her part of ignorance to the point of overdoing it while Edith sat and rolled her eyes. "Though perhaps it was a little unfortunate for Matthew to tell us all _so_ soon after you must have known – you might have had some to enjoy the news, first – but I can't begrudge him for being excited, it's only natural."

"Is it?" Edith scoffed. Mary might have slapped her if she'd been closer. She was desperately grateful for her mother trying, however little good it might do.

Sybil beamed happily, oblivious to all this. "Don't be so sour, Edith, I think that's terribly sweet of him. You are lucky, Mary!"

"I know I am, Sybil darling." Mary took her hand quickly and squeezed it, smiling. She was so very lucky, in so many ways… If only they knew! But… of course, she'd far rather they didn't.

But Violet wasn't put off by this. Mary (and Isobel, as it happened) was convinced that she did it on purpose, waiting for the lull, for them to breathe again, to believe it would be let slide…

"And when will the happy addition to our family join us?" the Dowager Countess asked airily, as if she wasn't in the least aware of the gravity of her question... Seeking a truth which could not be avoided, or pretended, or concealed.

Mary paled. "Oh, I – hardly know that, yet, I don't think –"

"But you must have seen Clarkson," Edith picked up on her grandmother's game. Even if she didn't fully understand, it was obvious the line of questioning flustered Mary, so she was all for it. "Didn't he tell you when to expect the baby?"

"Of course I've seen him!" Mary railed back, trying her best to remain calm and disinterested. "But he couldn't say precisely, I suppose it's too early for that."

"Really?" Violet raised an eyebrow. "That does seem rather –"

"Oh it's perfectly normal, for a first baby," Isobel smiled reassuringly and mustered her most confident, professional, knowledgeable tone in the hopes that it might shade her sketchy truth. "It's very hard to say. A month outside of what might usually be expected, even, is – really, quite usual."

Mary looked gratefully at her mother-in-law, terribly glad for not the first time that evening that Matthew had insisted she come, too. Not only that, but that she knew at all… Having to face this, without Isobel's support – instead with her disbelief, confusion, disappointment – would have been intolerable.

"And I suppose we are to take your word for it, as medical expert amongst us?" Violet looked definitely sceptical. But did not want to cause a scene, and instead pursed her lips.

"I don't see why we shouldn't," Sybil shrugged supportively. "I'm sure Cousin Isobel knows far more about that sort of thing than I ever would!"

"I wouldn't doubt it, Sybil dear," Edith laughed (not altogether kindly). She had not the experience to know, as her grandmother did, when things should at last be left alone and so carried blithely on. "I suppose it won't be noticeable for a few months yet, anyway, so you needn't worry about your wardrobe for a while, Mary…"

The jibe was cruel (though it might have been fair in the past, but Edith wasn't to know how her sister had changed), and Mary sighed loudly and irritably. She felt her energy sap, and in her weariness, stung back.

"_Really_, Edith, you don't know anything about it. Perhaps when you've grown up a bit and find yourself with a husband and child on the way, then you can talk to me of the necessary changes in dress, but please not until then."

"I think all such things aren't particularly the conversations to have just after dinner…" Cora cautioned them all from pressing her eldest daughter, who now looked very definitely tired of it all, any further. "We've plenty of time for all that. _Plenty_ of time."

"Thank you, Mama…!" Mary sighed again, and pushed herself to her feet. Her family looked on, mildly concerned, but she waved them off with a claim that she simply felt stifled and wanted to stand beside the window for a little while. It was marginally cooler, there. Not much. For a moment Sybil made as if to follow her, and Isobel certainly thought about it, before both realised it better to give her a moment to breathe.

And she did, feeling her chest rise and fall gently as she pressed a hand to her belly, watching her breath steam the glass of the window where she'd pushed the curtain aside. She flexed her hand, and felt distinctly ill, mulling over what Edith had said. Her other hand lifted to stroke distractedly at her necklace. She couldn't escape that, couldn't hide it, when it came to it; and it would, soon. She knew there wasn't long (and her figure was so slight, even more so with her recent heartache and vanished appetite) before she would begin to show, and it would be far, far too early to maintain any reasonable doubt. Granny obviously suspected anyway, and as she'd so vehemently pointed out to Matthew it hardly _mattered_; they were married anyway (and quickly enough to be decent) so there would be little enough consequence. But they would _know_, and that shamed her, and in this moment that seemed quite enough to be upset about.

Exhausted tears stung the back of her eyes, and she just wanted… to be at home. She shocked herself with the thought, and the realisation that, for the first time that did not feel like _here_. And the thought made her terribly sad, for the most part at least, but for that… tiny, _tiny_ part of her that knew her home was with Matthew. If only he could feel the same way… one day. This evening was the first time she'd begun to think that he might… one day.

Somehow, intuitively, instinctively, she had drowned out the chatter of her family and yet when the door opened she was immediately aware of him, and turned.

Matthew was half a step behind the Earl, and both men looked sober, making an obvious effort to brighten the moment they came through the door. Mary glanced anxiously between them, able to read nothing of their conversation in their expressions, but the barely perceptible inclination of her husband's head gave her faith she'd find out soon enough.

"Sorry if we've been a long time," Robert beamed to his wife and the rest of his family. "In all the excitement we'd a lot to discuss. Wonderful news, of course," he said again, and already it sounded thin.

"I think it's quite worn us out!" Violet chuckled dryly, though Sybil heartily disagreed.

Still by the window, Mary smiled weakly at her father and sighed again the moment he'd turned. In a moment, Matthew was by her side, his hand taking hers as his thumb stroked soothingly, unconsciously, over the back of it. She blinked up at him and was shocked to see something approaching warmth in his eyes, though it was still shadowed with insecurity.

"You look worn out," he murmured quietly, desperately aware of the eyes of their companions analysing their every move. He didn't stand too close, he wouldn't anyway, and smiled gently. They were excited, happy, thrilled, or… should be.

"I am," she tipped her head to the side, stretching her neck, and smiled back. "And so do you."

"Well I can't say I'm surprised," he pursed his lips wryly. "But I don't think anyone will blame us for making our excuses, do you?"

They didn't, and gracious smiles and kisses were exchanged and congratulations given again as they left. Carson escorted them out and, after helping Matthew into his coat the butler cleared his throat gently.

"What is it, Carson?" Matthew asked politely. Isobel had already gone out but Mary, who hadn't quite yet, turned back.

Carson hesitated a moment. "If I may, Mr. Crawley, and Lady Mary, too – you'll forgive me for overhearing, at dinner, but… I hope you won't mind me passing you my warmest congratulations, on behalf of all the staff."

"Oh, Carson, thank you!" Matthew smiled warmly, and the butler fondly, as Mary's face truly lit up.

"Thank you," she murmured sincerely, and then walked the few steps back towards them and squeezed Carson's hand before stretching up to place a very swift, but very fond, kiss on his cheek.

She smiled again, and hurried outside into the chill evening, leaving behind Carson with a deep crimson blush and Matthew with an odd twinge in his chest at the affectionate gesture.

Once settled into the car, the only sound for a few moments was the steady chug of the engine and the crunch of gravel under tyres. They each felt exhausted, and definitely drained, by the evening. But Isobel broke it first, turning Matthew's eyes from the black window and Mary's from her lap, knowing that they should (if only a little) discuss what had happened.

"I suppose," she said quietly, "that went as well as it could have been expected to!"

They neither were sure about that, but Isobel's job was done, and so she settled back and let them continue.

"I suppose so," Matthew wondered, and then looked apologetically at his wife. "I hope Cousin Violet wasn't too sharp with you…"

Mary shrugged. "She tried her best. But with a nurse fighting my corner there thankfully wasn't much she could say!" All three of them smiled, briefly, and quieted again. Then Mary tipped her head to the side, and asked, "How was Papa?"

It took a moment for Matthew to answer, his brow creasing gently as he wondered how best to put it.

"He… knows. At least, he knows as much as anyone would suspect."

"Oh." She breathed a sigh and stared back at her hands in her lap, inspecting the thread along the finger of her leather glove. "I see. At least it's out, now, though – I can only imagine how angry he was."

"Actually he was alright, in the end," Matthew shook his head. "You were right, you always were – there's nothing to be done about it, and – well, in his eyes I've _done the right thing_, the _honourable_ thing, but…" His shoulders shook as he chuckled scornfully at himself. As if he could call what he'd done _honourable_, in any way. Well, he was trying to make up for it now.

He glanced up, startled, when Mary's gloved fingertips brushed his knee (and beside her, his mother glared in disagreement).

"Don't say that as if you haven't," Mary said softly, and entirely seriously. She didn't need to elaborate; he'd saved her, after all, and he saw in her eyes and knew how sincerely grateful she was to him. At last he nodded, stiffly, and Mary settled back and smiled.

A moment passed, sounds of the car and the night covering their weary breaths, and then Mary frowned gently across again at her husband. "Thank you for telling them," she said. "I hadn't thought – you didn't tell me…" She knew how terrified he'd been of it, and after this evening she'd known he was right to be. And she was so appreciative of him for having done it regardless.

"Well," he replied kindly, "I thought you'd been right. I'm sure if we'd left it much later it would only have been worse."

Mary laughed suddenly. "I'm sure if we'd left it much later we probably wouldn't have needed to _tell_ them much at all." Tired laughter rippled in agreement through the car.

A moment more, and Matthew glanced up again. "I'm sorry I hadn't told you. On reflection maybe I should have done, but… I hadn't wanted you to worry."

His expression was soft, and his eyes full of such care (though he only worried about her health for the sake of their baby, she knew), that her breath caught in her throat and tears once more stung her eyes, that she swiped quickly away.

* * *

As she lay in bed, late that night and unable to sleep, Mary's hands stroked restlessly over her belly. The action was soothing, and she wondered that she'd never thought to do it before. She wondered if she'd find it so soothing, if it weren't for her baby. Her baby, _their_ baby… She hoped, she _knew_, it would be – if even only of sorts. In every way that would matter, it would be.

She concentrated on each sound she could hear. Her own breath. Her palms against cotton. The gentle wind against the panes, in the eaves. An owl, somewhere. Matthew. She could hear his breath, too, loud in his sleep in the next room. She smiled fondly. He didn't… _snore_, not as a habit, and she wouldn't even call this such. Not quite, anyway. But he must be tired, so tired in his body and spirit, and her heart ached with all those tiny gestures over the morning and the evening that she knew must have taken such an effort for him to perform.

The sounds were all familiar, now, and she felt strangely content. Perhaps she was simply too exhausted to feel sad, or worried, or lonely. But… she couldn't feel lonely, not now, not even with Matthew as he had been. Her fingers stroked again, and she smiled.

For so long she'd been so angry, and so scared. Scared for herself, angry at both Matthew and Kemal, either of them, whichever had cursed her with this condition and this burden and condemned her to such despair. For so long she'd hated the child, and herself for carrying it, and wished it would not exist to bear the shame of her behaviour. A constant, perpetual reminder; an insult to Matthew and a sickness to herself.

But now, she wondered. What if there'd been no consequence, what if she had been left unscathed? Well, she would never have been that… She could have escaped. Gone on with her life. For so long she'd been bitter that her choice had been robbed, but, what choice would she have had? Matthew had hated her, so much, and if it weren't for her baby they would most certainly not be married now. She wondered if they'd even be speaking, again, by now. Perhaps he would have made his own escape, back to Manchester, away from her. And she would have been married to the first or highest bidder, and with her heart shattered as it was she wondered if she'd have found the strength to hold off.

What would she have held off _for_, though? She loved Matthew, she'd loved him then, she'd loved him since the moment it was too late. And without the precious, unsought, unwanted gift in her womb it would have been too late forever.

She'd thought their forced marriage to be an unbearable thing, a life not worth living, a darkness in which there was no light, only misery. But it was _Matthew_, and she loved him… and he was her husband, even against his own wishes. And now, for the first time, if she squinted she could see a light in that darkness. It was faint… still, very faint, barely there. But it _was_ there.

Her hands tightened, protectively, across her belly, and she listened to the whisper of her husband's breath through the wall. If it weren't for her baby, that she had despised and blamed so at first, she would not be able to hear that now.

She closed her eyes and felt a hot tear slip down her cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, and believed that her child could hear her.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading :) As ever I'd love to know what you thought - your comments keep me going, they're so thought-provoking and give me such a fresh perspective. Thank you!_


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: _Well, hello my dears!_

_I can only apologise for the delay - anniversary trip away and a STONKING case of writer's block - but here we are again!  
_

_My heartfelt thanks for your support and comments, and enthusiasm for me to continue - they mean the world to me! So, thank you, so very much. :) And especially to EOlivet for her tireless encouragement and beady eye on my typos, and Pemonynen for listening to me constantly witter on!  
_

_Lots of references to York in this chapter... when I'm awake in the morning I'll post some photos on Tumblr (OrangeShipper if you haven't found me yet!) so you can picture it better :D  
_

_ETA: For reference's sake, it's now coming up to April 1913, and M/M have been married nearly two months.  
_

_Enjoy..!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

It was a week or so later that Matthew arrived cheerily home from work, his spirits seeming to match the brighter afternoon sunshine now the season was well into spring. He noticed how pretty the garden looked; it was much larger than theirs had been in Manchester (and better tended, with Molesley's enthusiasm), and Matthew surprised himself when his next thought was a fleeting glimmer of disappointment that the brightness and life of the blossoming flowers would be fading in the autumn chill by the time Mary's child was born.

He sighed, saw from the path that the window was open, and went inside to find his mother sitting in the cool draught with her embroidery on her knee.

"Hello," he smiled and looked around him distractedly. "Isn't Mary about?"

"Not at the moment, no." Isobel accepted his quick kiss, and – while she might normally have taken offence at Matthew's distracted dismissal of her beyond the barest courtesy – bore a smile instead of a frown at the fact that he sought his wife without a shadow of despair. "I think she's visiting Cousin Violet for tea. How was your day?"

"Ah." Matthew accepted the cup of tea that appeared before him in Molesley's hands, and sat down to sip it gently. "Fine, thank you," he answered his mother's question at last, sounding not in the least interested as a frown creased his brow. "I hope Cousin Violet isn't too sharp with Mary…"

"Mary can look after herself quite well enough, my dear, you know that."

"Of course, I… Yes of course she can."

He knew it well enough, after watching her cope through the last difficult months from a bitter distance, offering her nothing at all. A quiet admiration for his wife warmed his chest, and he took a deep breath.

He was trying so hard… to see her as _Mary_. Not his lover, not a woman he had loved, not his wife, not the mother of a baby who must in every way that mattered be his… Just, _Mary_. In a concerted effort to rebuild even a shadow of what they'd had and what he'd once wished for, he'd built around his perception a careful shield of neutrality. Because if he allowed himself to realise, to behold everything that she was to him… then he found himself assuaged with such powerful feelings for her that confused all his efforts. If he would let himself, he would love her and loathe her; to think of her as a wife, lover, mother made his body burn with lust and shame and memory and… that would not do.

They had started again, as much as they could. And so, she was simply _Mary_ – she was pleasant, pretty, clever, witty, and he could simply take pleasure in her company for what it was. Not for what it had been, or could be, not that pleasure of her soft skin under his lips or her body tight around him… not that. He shivered and pushed those haunting thoughts aside. She was just Mary, and he could enjoy being with her, and for now that must be all of it.

It wasn't much longer before Mary arrived at home, and as the front door opened and the warmth of her voice drifted down the hall Matthew leapt to his feet, splashing tea into the saucer. He put it down quickly and wiped his hands, as Isobel looked curiously on and Mary walked into the sitting room.

"Hello," she said, looking faintly startled, tugging gently at the fingers of her leather gloves till they slipped off and into her hands."I'm afraid I was rather trapped by Granny. Is everything quite alright?"

Matthew finally managed to close his mouth, and licked his lips.

"Yes – quite alright, I'm – well, I'm pleased you're home." He smiled shyly, and Mary delicately, and they both sat down. Molesley brought in a fresh pot of tea, and Matthew felt not for the first time a sincere gratitude to the quiet butler who discreetly replaced his slopped teacup and saucer.

Mary murmured quiet thanks as she took her tea, watching Matthew with shining eyes and a fluttery heart. This new peace between them, however fragile and hesitant it felt, was proving a joy day by day. She would have taken anything over his miserable silence, but his breathless smiles and tentative gestures made her hope soar more than any rash, romantic overtures ever might have. This Matthew; a little bashful, unsure of himself, almost flirting with her though she was sure he had not meant or was even aware of it… reminded her so sharply of the man she'd known months ago and had fallen in love with. Their relationship now was too precious and new to spoil with haste in reclaiming their love.

She blinked as Matthew's voice brought her out of herself and into his true presence.

"You see I wanted to tell you, that it seems I need to go across to York tomorrow, and deliver some documents to the courthouse that apparently were forgotten today. Nothing vital, I'm sure, but still they've asked me to go, and – said I might take the rest of the day to enjoy myself!"

He'd looked so intently at Mary throughout this speech that Isobel might have felt quite put out, if it didn't please her so much. Still, she felt slightly relieved when Mary asked him to elaborate, as they neither could understand his odd, nervous excitement.

"Well how marvellous!" Mary exclaimed lightly, and took another sip of her tea, wondering why Matthew had so particularly wanted to tell her but inwardly thrilled if he'd only wanted to share something of his day with her. "But surely you're not the firm's errand boy? Unless you've exaggerated your position to us…"

Matthew laughed gently. "Certainly not! Quite the opposite, in fact. I think I was tasked with it for having spent entirely too much time over my desk just lately, and… seeing as I've been given the rest of the day, and I've not taken the leisure of visiting the city very much yet, I… wondered, Mary, if you'd like to come with me? We could make a day of it. If – you'd like."

For a moment, Mary only stared at him. Then placed her teacup gently down, pressing her lips together as it rattled quietly in the saucer, and folded her hands in her lap.

"I would like that… thank you, Matthew."

"Wonderful! That's… wonderful, I think we'll take the nine-thirty train which should give us plenty of time to make the most of the day. I'm afraid I'll be quite the tourist, though, if you won't mind –"

"No, I won't mind. I think you'll like it very much!"

Matthew nodded, and smiled, and looked more genuinely happy than anyone had seen him look since before Christmas at least. It was as if a breath of fresh air had lightened the room, and Mary felt at once so self-conscious of the breadth of her smile that she quickly picked her tea back up and raised it to her lips to disguise it.

* * *

As Mary dressed the next morning, noting with pleasure that this was the fourth day now that she'd not been woken by sickness, she was hardly aware of the extra touches of care she was taking.

"I think the dove grey, Anna, today – yes, and that blouse will be lovely, thank you."

"Of course, Milady," her maid smiled knowingly. The long skirt and blouse had a slim, flattering cut, and Mary had not chosen it for some time. "I'll set the coat out for it downstairs, as well, shall I?"

"Please, if you would."

Mary smiled, watching the movement of her hands as she applied cream to them and then dabbed powder to her cheeks, wondering if she was just imagining that the shadows beneath her eyes were not quite so obvious today, or her skin not quite so dull as it had been. She let Anna dress her, and perched again before her vanity as practised fingers weaved her hair into an elegant knot. "Do you think it will do for the weather, Anna?" she asked distractedly, seeking unknowing assurance of her choice.

"I do, it's light enough for the sunshine, and – if I might say, Lady Mary, I've always thought you look very fine in it. Very fine."

"Oh, thank you, how kind." Her heart fluttered as she wondered if Matthew would think so. Taking a breath against the constraint of her corset, she passed her hands over her tightly bound in waist. The coat had always shown her slender figure off well, and she drew a wry smile. "I don't suppose I'll have the chance to wear it for much longer at all, so I might as well take advantage while I still can!"

Anna laughed, resting her hands lightly for a moment on Mary's shoulders as she surveyed her handiwork, stooping to secure a curling wisp of hair that had strayed. She took the ends of the necklace that Mary looped behind her neck and fastened it quickly.

"Good for you," she smiled, stepping back to gather her lady's nightdress as Mary dabbed on a delicate, floral perfume to her neck and wrists. "But I think you'll look beautiful anyways, Milady, and…" she hesitated, clasping her hands together before finishing more quietly, "I'm sure mister Matthew will think so, too."

"Oh, Anna –"

But the maid had already slipped out, and Mary turned again to her mirror to consider herself… thinking it was surely beyond hope that Matthew could look at her and think her beautiful again, not yet.

* * *

"You look lovely," Matthew complimented her quietly, watching her fix a pin into her wide-brimmed hat as he shrugged his coat on.

Mary smiled graciously and dipped her head to hide the faint blush spreading over her cheeks, hurrying outside while Isobel bid them goodbye from the doorway. They walked in a comfortable, almost companionable silence, not quite sure of what to say to each other in this still new, still unsteady, truce of friendship between them. Mary commented on the weather, and Matthew agreed that it was very fine indeed, wondering absently whether the gentle glow to her cheeks was simply an effect of the sunshine and air or something more.

When they reached Downton's train station, Matthew helped his wife carefully into the carriage, making sure she was comfortable before sitting down himself.

"What is it?" he asked when, a minute or so after setting off, she paled slightly.

"Oh, nothing." She sat up a little straighter and pressed her gloved palms to her belly. Her breaths were slow, careful, against the rocking motion of the train. "I've not taken the train in some months, that's all."

"God, I'm sorry – we could've taken the car, I didn't –" Of course he hadn't _thought_, he glowered inwardly. But Mary quickly waved off his concern.

"No, no, it's perfectly alright. I'm not sure it's the train so much as – my determination to have squeezed into this coat while I thought I still could!" She laughed wryly at her stupid, girlish pride. The same foolish, vain pride that had crumbled their dreams in the first place, dreams she hadn't even known at the time that she'd cherish.

"Oh Mary…" But he laughed, then, with her; because he had to, because there was nothing else they could do. And he stood to open the window, hoping the fresh air would cool her, and when he sat back down his knee brushed hers, cotton against cotton, and he shivered and didn't quite meet her eyes for the rest of the journey.

It might have been awkward, but the journey by train was not long and by the time it drew with a puff of steam and an echoing whistle into the high, vaulted arches of York station, any awkwardness was forgotten in Mary's delight at Matthew's enthralment. It was a grand old station; she'd always enjoyed passing through on the way to London, and though Matthew had passed through himself several times before in his life he'd not often stopped to admire it, or the city beyond.

Without conscious decision he offered his arm to Mary, and she took it with far greater awareness. She laughed at Matthew's sharp intake of breath as they left the station and found themselves faced with the high banks of the city walls, covered entirely over with a storm of yellow daffodils that waved proudly in the springtime breeze.

"D'you know something," Matthew leaned a little closer to her, looking up in awe as they followed the path through and into the city. "It's still legal – some middle-aged law that was never repealed, I suppose – to shoot a Scotsman within the walls with a bow and arrow."

"Is it?" Mary lifted a faintly mocking brow.

He nodded. "Except on a Sunday, yes. Though I don't suppose there's many with bow and arrows handy now to take advantage of it."

"No. Well! I'm glad to see your education in the law was worthwhile for something…"

Matthew's laugh tapered into a bitterly disappointed sigh. "Mary, I know my work seems very trivial to you –"

"It doesn't!" She placed her other hand on his arm, her expression a mask of apology. "I'm sorry, I was teasing. If you must know," she shrugged, "I have rather envied you having somewhere to go every day, and something to do."

"I thought that made me very middle-class," Matthew said, more softly now. "And… I know that isn't what you'd wanted."

"I didn't think it was. But then, I was wrong about a lot of things."

"Don't say that. We both were."

A lot of things, but not everything… and as their eyes met in a sad, understanding, breathless smile they knew (if only in the back of their minds somewhere, not fully acknowledged) that _some_ things, they had been very right about indeed.

Matthew drew a sharp breath, raising his head again to take the fresh air and his mind from the morose place it had been falling into. "Anyway that's all behind us, isn't it, so let's just try and enjoy the day. Shall we?"

"Yes, alright."

They followed the directions Matthew had been given to the courthouse, and Mary waited in the marbled foyer while he was whisked off to some office or other. When he returned, he waved his briefcase at her and grimaced apologetically.

"So much for having the rest of the day… I'm afraid I need to return _these_ to the office before they close up at five o'clock. I'm so sorry – but we've until mid afternoon, at least!"

Mary smiled graciously. "Don't apologise for that, please. There's far more to be seen than we could manage in just a day anyway, and I'm sure we'll be tired enough by then." She certainly would be, she knew, but hadn't wanted to call off Matthew's enthusiasm any sooner than he was willing to.

"You're probably right." He shifted the briefcase to his other hand so she could take his arm again, and they set out in the direction of where they could see the towers of York Minster rising above the city. "But there's no need for you to be delayed going back by Ripon with me – of course you must go straight home if you like."

"Certainly not!" she countered him immediately. "I'd like to come with you, if you wouldn't mind."

"No, I… wouldn't mind."

Something approaching fondness (though he'd never acknowledge it as such) haunted Matthew's expression, as he watched her wander across the little cobbled street to peer into a window. They went along slowly, into this shop and that, and by the end of the street where the Minster towered high in front of them, Matthew's briefcase carried an additional three novels, a new silk tie that was more elegant than he usually wore for work but it was Mary's preference, and a pair of dainty lace gloves for her that Matthew had insisted upon when he'd seen her admiring them in the window.

"Well, what do you think?" Mary couldn't help but beam at the way Matthew's eyes widened and lit up as they approached the Minster.

"Remarkable," he breathed, craning his neck to look up at the intricate, gothic arches over the doors. "It's smaller than Manchester's cathedral but… far prettier, certainly."

Mary lifted a hand to shade her eyes, trying to spot precisely what had Matthew so fascinated, then nodded as he pointed for her.

"I supposed most things in Yorkshire were far prettier than Manchester," she commented drily, and was pleased when this time Matthew laughed rather than taking offence.

Enthusiasm radiated from him as they walked below the tall, vaulted ceilings inside, and Mary listened with genuine interest as they ventured down into the crypt where Matthew could point out to her the Roman and Norman foundations of the site. She had never been a great historian, not of this sort of thing, but Matthew's excitement was infectious and it was hard not to be impressed at the church's grandeur.

By the time they returned to the street and the sunlight, both were quite exhausted and really quite happy, awareness and memory tingling through them of a happier, easier time. It was easier, now, to remember the many hours they'd spent talking, teasing, laughing, before… they'd confused everything and themselves with stolen kisses and hidden caresses that they should not have indulged so soon. They were more careful, now, burned once… and found themselves cherishing the tentative ease of companionship now.

When Mary suggested they take some lunch, Matthew heartily agreed, and after some deliberation chose an inn that intrigued them with its curiously angled floors and ceilings, worn with age.

"I've heard before that it's haunted…" Mary whispered loudly as they stepped inside, wobbling and leaning closer against Matthew to recover her balance on the steep floorboards.

"It's haunted, or its clientele inebriated?"

"Which do you suppose is more likely?" she laughed. "I wonder if inebriation would make it easier to navigate…"

Matthew frowned, and at the direction of a nearby waiter helped Mary to a table. Even the table sloped rather alarmingly, but they were too charmed by it to mind.

"Either easier if it becomes less noticeable, or harder if you were already unsteady… I'm sure I couldn't say!"

"And I'm sure that's probably a good thing!"

They were interrupted by the waiter.

"What can I get for your lovely wife and yourself, Sir?" the young man asked cursorily.

After quickly choosing what they fancied and placing their order, Matthew turned back to Mary with a prickling kind of eagerness at continuing their easy chatter… but his smile fell at the curious frown on her face.

"What is it, my dear?"

His throat tightened instantly as the words slipped out, and he flexed his fingers upon the table top. Mary had evidently heard it, too, for her eyes widened a fraction before her smile became more impossibly sad (however she tried to hide it).

"Really, Matthew, nothing at all –"

"Please – don't pretend, Mary, don't say it's alright when it isn't," he urged her softly, flexing his hand again before it instinctively reached to cover hers. He flinched at the contact, but did not remove it. "We've done enough of that, please… tell me."

"Oh, Matthew…" She shook her head in resignation, and wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "It just – strikes me, still, to be called your wife. Because I don't – quite feel like it, always."

She released her remaining breath in a rush and looked hesitantly up. It was ridiculous, really, she could almost laugh – to be very soon clearly with child, to have been married so many weeks, and yet still not feel like a wife. But she couldn't find his gaze, for it was downcast.

Matthew wet his lips. "I'm so sorry." His voice was shaky, quiet, and she had to strain to hear him (though the note of apology, of regret in his voice was clear enough). "You are, though. By all law –"

"Am I?"

She hadn't meant to say it so sharply, and her breath hissed as Matthew's hand withdrew to his lap in shame.

"Well, not… _properly_, I suppose," he muttered, unable to look at her. The air between them cooled, seeming to darken and crowd and push them apart with the shadows and bustle around them. He shivered. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be!" He was too far across the table for her to reach, but her fingers still twitched restlessly for him. He looked up at last, searching her gaze, but she was all sincerity. "Not now, Matthew – not today. Let's not think about all that, we promised."

They were supposed to be enjoying themselves. And suddenly it seemed completely absurd, and Matthew had to cough back the laugh that rose in his throat. Mary's lips twitched helplessly in response until she laughed as well, and somehow Matthew's fingers found her hand again across the table, and this time he only let go once their food was placed in front of them.

But despite Mary's plea, it could not be forgotten entirely. Pushed to one side, to the back of his mind, buried under conversation and jokes and debates, perhaps… but never entirely forgotten. She could not be truly his wife, not properly, until they'd broached that which still seemed so impossible, that which made him still simmer and chill in equal measure… and through the afternoon which they filled with dismissive smiles and forgettable chatter, he couldn't – however much he tried – keep his mind from shying to the thought of intimacy with Mary.

* * *

As she'd promised, she left the train with him at Ripon. She'd been many times before, of course, and would come again soon for new dress fittings. But Matthew's law firm was quite new to her, and she looked up at the pretty, ivy-clad building curiously.

"So this is where you have hidden yourself away each day!" she smiled, following him into the dark, wood-panelled reception.

He chuckled, handing over the file he'd brought back to the clerk behind the desk.

"I stopped _hiding _here at least a week ago, thank you."

Mary laughed delicately and followed him again through another door, to what she supposed must be his own office as he scanned through the pile of letters quickly on his desk, picking out those which needed more immediate address.

She liked it, she decided. It was cosy. Pleasant. The smell of wood and ink and leather was strangely comforting, and reminded her of her father's library. It was so easy to picture Matthew at the swivel chair behind the desk, writing, talking, his jacket and hat on the stand and – she liked to imagine – his sleeves rolled up a touch as he worked. She found herself warming at the thought of it, and wondered at how she would have laughed with scorn at herself for this only a few months ago.

"Well, if you had to hide somewhere, I can certainly think of worse places to do so than here," she proclaimed at last. Her smile confirmed her approval, and Matthew turned to her happily at the realisation of it, and her acceptance.

"I thought so," he shrugged lightly, "but… it isn't quite so comfortable as home."

* * *

It wasn't too much longer before they reached their home, again, pleasantly drained from their day's excursions.

"I think I've had quite enough excitement for one day," Mary murmured wearily as she took off her hat and allowed Molesley to help her out of her coat. She felt immediate relief from its tightness, and breathed deeply.

"Quite," her husband agreed.

Molesley had disappeared with his usual efficiency down the hallway to prepare some tea, and before Mary could do the same and retire to the sitting room Matthew gently touched her arm.

She turned to him, shivering as his fingers lingered at her elbow, brushing through the thin cotton to her skin. He pressed his lips into a trembling smile. "Thank you, Mary, for… the loveliest day I've had in a long time."

The ebb and flow of her heartbeat in her chest quickened, and her eyes flicked over his face, hardly daring to recognise the… tenderness, that lit it.

"It has been lovely, hasn't it," she replied breathlessly, pressing her lips and her fingertips together. "Thank you, too."

He nodded wordlessly, his body seeming poised in hesitation or anticipation. And before he could provoke himself otherwise, Matthew bent his head and kissed her cheek, allowing himself for the first time in their marriage to realise and relish the sensation of her soft, porcelain skin against his lips… just for a moment.

Mary gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt his lips and his fingertips at her elbow tighten. Before she opened them she felt him shift, and then for the most precious moment his lips brushed hers, still parted in a silent gasp. Stabs of heat rushed within her stiffened body, for a second that felt like an eternity… until he drew back, and their eyes met, closed, opened, and everything was as it had been.

He mumbled an excuse about needing to sort out his papers, and withdrew hastily on trembling legs to his study, to calm himself before seeing her again. And Mary reminded herself to breathe, once, twice, before smoothing her hands over her belly and readying her smile for Isobel, making her way quickly to the sitting room to regain her strength from sitting down and a cup of tea.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! I'm curious as ever to know what you think, and am continually touched by your thoughtful comments. Thank you! :)_


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: _Many thanks for your kind comments on the last chapter! I appreciate your support so much :) Special thanks to EOlivet for her encouragement and polish!_

_Onwards, then... Enjoy! :)  
_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Sitting at his desk in Ripon, Matthew rubbed his fingers in weary circles over his temples. He stared at the will in front of him, not seeing it at all. He'd been resisting the idea but he supposed that at some point he'd have to change his own, now, to include Mary, and… Well, perhaps it wasn't quite so important yet, not terribly urgent. Then the very idea that he might change it according to whether or not he could be certain of his child's birthright sickened him to his core, and he pulled across his diary to clear some space to do it the very next day.

Agitated, he stood up and went to the window which was open and admitting only the slightest breeze. He lifted his chin and took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. There was a knock at his door, and he turned to see it open.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Crawley," his clerk said. "Your wife's here, I wasn't sure if you were busy –"

"No! No, I'm not busy – at least not so busy as to not see her. Please, show her through."

He stood in the middle of the small office, cursing himself not that his first reaction was a little flip of excitement, but that his next instinct was to quash it down again. It was _alright_, he had to keep reminding himself, that her company should excite him – and yet he fought a continual conflict, to keep any deeper feelings and desires at bay, to protect the new affection blossoming within him.

He sighed, and found her company a more pleasant distraction from his thoughts as she came in.

"Hello dear!" He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, fingertips grazing her waist before he leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a dress fitting, and thought I'd say hello while I was here," she smiled, clutching her purse self-consciously in front of her belly, now curved in a gentle, but definitely visible, swell. "It used to be a trip I was always excited to make, but –"

"I'm sure whatever you've chosen will look splendid," Matthew reassured her meaningfully.

She shrugged. "We'll see, but – thank you. I'm sorry if I've interrupted you."

"Not at all, I appreciate the distraction!" He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his sides where his fingers tapped restlessly together. "Actually I'm going to see your father when I've finished, he's had some estimates for the restoration work on the cottages we'd discussed and asked if I'd go over them with him. I'm rather hoping it means he's forgiven me," he smiled thinly. He'd not seen Robert privately since the evening of their announcement a few weeks ago, and hadn't dared to presume an invitation beyond their occasional dinners at the big house.

"Oh, Matthew. You've done little to require his forgiveness, truthfully –"

"Seducing his eldest daughter doesn't require forgiveness? My, the world _is_ changing…"

Mary cocked her head at him, pursing her lips. "I think that marrying her to save the family from scandal and her child and herself from a lifetime of ruin probably serves a little in your favour, don't you?"

"Perhaps." He smiled sadly and reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles in a gentle reassurance. Then he stood up, and found himself suddenly so close to her that the breath between them was stolen in a quiet gasp.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" Mary finally said, swallowing as she tried to forget his closeness and the feel of his breath upon her cheek and his fingers around hers. "I'd like to see Mama, and then we could walk home, perhaps."

"Yes, I'd like that."

He stroked her fingers once more and stepped away, feeling it like a physical tug as his breath quickened against the urge to kiss her. Licking his lips, he waved at the swivel chair in front of his desk before sitting down again behind it. "Please," he said distractedly, "do sit down. I've not very much more to do at all, so you can wait if you like. I won't be very long."

So she sat down, folded her hands in her lap and took the liberty of watching him work, noticing the ink stains on his fingers and the way the hair on his wrists curled beneath his shirt cuffs.

* * *

There was a new, and yet so stirringly familiar, tension between them as they journeyed the short distance to the abbey. A constant, prickling awareness that had been building ever since that first, unsure kiss. Matthew wanted to ignore it, he tried, and it made Mary ache with longing and fear. They had got it so wrong, before, _so_ wrong… and the fear of getting it wrong again now almost overwhelmed the persistent taunt of attraction.

When they reached the big house and separated, Matthew disappearing into the library at Carson's instruction and Mary to the drawing room where she hoped to find her mother, it was almost a relief. Restraint was becoming an effort, and that it should be so frustrated Matthew.

Immeasurably more pleasant to realise was the Earl's ease of manner with him, as they settled back to estate matters and more definite plans for the cottages' restoration. And if he had worried for any awkwardness when they joined the ladies briefly so that Robert could greet Mary before they went home, there was none at all, as they observed (with quiet pride, even) the newly-noticeable swell that her dress could no longer hide. And when Edith commented rather sourly that it seemed really very soon, no-one paid her jibes the slightest bit of attention.

Mary wondered, as they left, whether to walk had been such a good idea after all. Beneath her hands the muscles of Matthew's arm were tight, and she could see the tension in the set of his jaw and his eyes that stared blindly ahead.

For a blissfully short while, it had seemed so easy. That friendship which they'd once known had come back to them, they had laughed, the bitterness was gone… and then, he had kissed her. And it had been… beautiful, but now the problem was that he wanted to do it again, and again.

But to kiss her again… To acknowledge her beauty and his own desire for her, made him remember. And then his body warmed with passion, but to think of kissing her was to remember that another had kissed her, and he didn't _want_ to think of that. Oh, how he wanted to take her in his arms and forget that there had been another! To do that, though… required almost every ounce of his concentration, to focus solely on her lips alone and the feel of her against him, as heat and the chill of disappointment fought for dominance in his breast.

Here, walking down the familiar, shaded paths of the estate, he could only see memories. That tree which they'd leaned against to kiss, that path that led to a copse where they'd sheltered from the rain and her hands had slipped into his coat…

"I hope you can school a cheerier expression by the time we are home," Mary's soft voice penetrated his thoughts and brought him back to her side, back to this moment. "Or your mother will make you tell her what the matter is."

His head turned sharply, finding that her dry smile confirmed the lilt in her voice that told him it was not in the least an accusation.

He chuckled. "Heaven help us! I'm sorry, I was… thinking."

"About something terribly serious, I can only imagine."

"Not very serious, I was just…" He trailed off, licking his lips as he found his gaze lost in his wife's.

Somehow they weren't aware of having stopped, of having turned to face each other, of their hands finding the other's. Mary's head inclined gently, a silent invitation if he would like to take it as such… though there was hardly need for it as his eyes, his very demeanour, betrayed his mind.

He breathed deeply. She was _Mary_… before him, now, suspended in this moment, her dark eyes and fair skin and rose lips, a woman who challenged him in every way, and… he would _not_ think of the past, of _who_ was in the past… But the memories threatened to encroach on him again and before they could do so he leaned forwards, saw her eyes widen and accept, then flutter shut, and this kiss was new and breathless and _theirs_…

Mary's fingers tightened around his, her hitched breath the only other response she made beyond moving her lips gently against his, welcoming them. He breathed again, trembling, kissing, frowning with the effort of concentrating upon just her lips, just her scent, just _her_ and nothing else. If he tried, if he concentrated, there was nothing else… and his darker thoughts, or the threat of them, vanished at the pressure of her sweet lips against his.

It was blissful, more than Mary had hoped for, and yet… a part of her could feel his restraint, a shadow of unease that marred the perfection of their warm mouths meeting in the cool air. Gasping for air, she pulled away, eyes still closed as her fingers stroked at the lapel of his jacket. All she could hear were his warm, heavy breaths, her own blood rushing in her ears.

"Matthew, you don't – please, you don't _have_ to do this," she breathed.

"No, I…" His thumb brushed over her cheek. "I _want_ to. Mary, I want to, or I… wouldn't."

He kissed her softly once more, and their sighs breathed together before they parted. As they stepped back Mary saw the conflict in his eyes, and it was that more than anything which testified to his truth. Her head lowered in a gentle nod, and she smiled.

"I know, darling." And that he _wanted_ to, he _wanted_ to kiss her, to… maybe even love her, again (though she hardly dared contemplate _that_ thought yet), when she felt the most undeserving of his affection… was the dearest, and most humbling thought she could imagine.

* * *

The days went on, and so did their tentative affection; a lingering kiss in the hallway, fingertips brushing the nape of her neck as he walked behind her at the table, hands searching and finding and curling together in the car as they travelled. That thread of desire that had joined them, that had pulled them together again and again in those months before, renewed and strengthened its tug with every slight gesture. Every inch between them was felt, palpable, uncomfortable… and the effort of restraint even more so. Mary wondered if it had ever truly gone away, that thread, or whether they had simply buried it – but before, she had not known that she loved him. Matthew had been a distraction, she hesitated to believe it of herself but a toy, even… She had enjoyed him, and her naivety had come so close to destroying everything they'd shared. Now she felt it again, the heady delight of his arms around her, his lips tasting hers – but now he was her husband, now she loved him, now there was… a child.

And yet despite all that, something about their kisses – growing more frequent, more impatient, more breathless every day – still felt stolen, forbidden, a secret pleasure in which they should not be indulging. And it was… intensely frustrating. A frustration released in the sweet clash of their lips, hot breaths, palms stroking safely along arms, shoulders, cheeks…that then intensified again the moment they parted, to sit across the dining table or in their different chairs in the sitting room or to dress for bed and sleep in their own, separate beds. And as Mary lay in bed, her body aching with desire and her lips still stinging from the glorious pressure of his, knowing that he was just beyond the wall… she wondered if he felt the same, knew that he did, and wondered if this was perhaps a worse kind of misery than they'd faced before.

No… it could never be that. But it had been easier, almost, to not be taunted with affection that was snatched away and held at bay by their fear. Oh, Mary could understand his restraint. Already, this slight intimacy was crushing their friendship, even as it was trying to blossom, with the frustration it left in its wake. And still, she felt her body burn with equal shame as she remembered what she had done, what the baby she carried meant, and wondered how Matthew could bring himself to kiss her. She could feel, as they kissed, how he struggled – his desire and fear battling, and her own shame made her wary of giving in to her passion. The tension was constant, present, aching… and yet, still, they wanted more.

* * *

"I think," announced Mary after dinner one day, "that I must ask Mrs. Bird to write down the recipe for that wonderful dessert… What did you say it was called, Matthew?"

"Apple Charlotte," he murmured happily, settling into his chair with his newspaper. It was delicious, and – he was pleased to see Mary's appetite perking up again.

"Mm. I'm sure Papa would enjoy it. If I could pass it on to Mrs. Patmore…"

Isobel chuckled. "Would Mrs. Patmore appreciate that, do you think?"

"On reflection, probably not," Mary smiled. The pride of Downton Abbey's cook was very well known, matched only to their knowledge by Mrs. Bird's own. "I suppose I could pass it to Mama without comment on where it was from, at least."

"I'd suggested inviting your family to dine, my dear, but I don't think they'd fit around our table," Matthew commented wryly, and was rewarded by Mary's smile.

Isobel watched the two of them laughing together with pleasure, knowing how difficult it had been for Mary to settle to the lifestyle she had committed herself to through marriage. But there had been things far more important than that to bear, and the banter back and forth between the pair now was a joy to her heart.

But however much things had progressed, the nurse knew her son, and recognised the conflict in his eyes. They sparkled but would quickly dull, and when Mary was near there was a perceptible tightness in his manner. As if… he was holding back, denying something to herself, they were not… at ease. And when they would then part, both would sigh out of sight, resigning themselves to whatever it was they felt they must hold to.

She watched Mary stand up and excuse herself to bed.

Matthew watched as well, his eyes having rarely left his wife's figure all evening as she'd shown off her new evening dress that skimmed flatteringly over her rounded waist. And when Mary walked past his chair, Isobel saw his hand stretch out to take hers, and his lips press against her knuckles.

"Goodnight, Mary," he said softly, and his grasp lingered on her fingers before they both seemed to shiver as they parted.

Mary touched his shoulder gently, and Matthew's eyes closed a moment.

"Goodnight, darling."

As the younger woman left the room and the door closed quietly, Matthew's expression seemed to darken with a fraught tenderness. He stared at his newspaper again, but his eyes were hard and unfocussed on the words, as his finger stroked along his lower lip distractedly.

Perhaps she'd already interfered enough, Isobel wondered. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it would only frustrate him, more, but… perhaps, just perhaps, she might be right. And she wouldn't put anything past her son's stubbornness, and pride – not even this.

"Matthew," she said quietly, a few minutes after Mary had gone.

"What is it, Mother?"

His wary expression signalled his understanding of her tone, as he let the newspaper fall to his lap with a sigh. That he didn't even bristle to an argument gave Isobel cause to hope.

"Might I give you one piece of advice, my dear?"

"Of course, if you like," he muttered. He said it grudgingly, but they both knew that no matter how much he argued, or dug his heels in, he would – eventually – listen.

Isobel smiled. "I only wanted to say – to reassure you, really – that it's quite, _quite_ acceptable, Matthew, to be in love with your wife."

He stiffened immediately. "What? I don't – Mother, you don't know –"

"That's all," she held a hand up to stop his tirade of self-defence before it began. "I shan't tell you what to do about it, that is up to you, but I just want you to think about it."

A deep sigh shuddered from Matthew's chest, and he did not answer her again until he bid her a subdued goodnight a little while later.

_Friends_. That was all he'd been trying to achieve. _Mary_. To build up that friendship, that companionship… Could he love her again? He had, once, he'd loved her so fiercely – and that had been their destruction. As he silently let Molesley ready him for bed, he dwelt on his mother's words, and wondered at the sharp ache that had been sitting in his gut for weeks, longer than that, that he'd been trying to ignore and push away.

There was something locked within him, that he'd been too scared to contemplate.

He got into bed, and lay beneath the cotton sheets, and closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. And unlocked what it was that he'd hidden.

He thought of Mary. He thought of talking with her, kissing her, being with her… He saw her with the child they'd raise together, his arms around them both, his lips in her scented hair, and… a part of the puzzle didn't fit. Not that; it was missing entirely. He knew exactly what it was, and saw that until that piece was found and fitted, this frustration would never let them go. For the first time since they had married, Matthew realised that he wanted… a marriage. With Mary. Wasn't that what he had always wanted?

How long had he thought he might fool himself otherwise? But as he realised it now, his heart surged with feelings that he'd denied to himself for so, so long – that he had denied to himself from almost the moment that he'd first whispered them to her, before they had fallen apart.

It was like a storm within his mind, unleashed from the floodgates and overwhelming in its strength. He trembled, felt constricted, claustrophobic, and scrambled from his small bed with sweat prickling at his brow.

Mary heard the quiet, frantic little knock at her bedroom door. She hadn't been asleep, yet, and put her book gently down on the bedside cabinet.

"Yes?" she called quietly.

As Matthew came into her room, covering the distance to her bed quickly, there was something almost wild about him that made Mary almost want to laugh, that it might not frighten her. He sat down beside her and took her hand, and her body warmed instantly from his presence.

He kissed her hand then looked up at her, his eyes dark and gleaming in the moonlight.

"Mary, my darling…" he said, so softly she thought at first she must have misheard him. Her heart leapt.

"What is it?" She stroked his hand between hers, frowning gently.

Matthew smiled faintly. "I think – Mary, I think –"

He couldn't voice it, not yet, and leaned forwards to kiss her. And the very moment their lips touched and heat sparked between them, Mary felt that it was different. The restraint, the frustration… had gone. She whimpered quietly against his mouth, parting her lips and clutching his shoulders as his tongue flicked against the tip of hers, and she felt the thin cotton of his pyjamas brush against her nightgown.

They kissed, brimming with a fearful kind of passion that terrified them both as much as it exhilarated. Sinking down against the pillows, his arms came tightly around her and the quietest, softest moan touched the heavy air.

It was Matthew who eased away first, letting his lips slip over hers as his thumb brushed tenderly across her cheek.

Now, in the moonlight, in her arms… perhaps…

"I love you," he whispered. "I'm not sure that I ever stopped and I –"

Mary kissed him again, her voice breathless and tearful with happiness that she felt in every pore of her body.

"Do you believe me now?" she breathed against his lips. "Do you know that I have loved you, and that I do, though – darling, you've made it very difficult to at times!"

"I know," he sighed happily, and kissed her again. "I know."

Somehow it only now occurred to Matthew that they were lying in bed together, in _his_ bed, in their home, and… he loved her. He swallowed heavily, his voice shaking with nervous fear as he looked into the precious darkness of Mary's eyes. He didn't know if he could do this, if _they_ could… if they could forget, and remember only each other. But for the first time, consciously at least – he wanted to try.

He kissed her again, gently, and hesitantly asked her. "Mary, would you mind if – can I… stay?"

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thanks ever so much for reading! They're progressing... I'd love to know your thoughts, as always, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)  
_

_Also, I'm going on holiday at the end of the week, for two weeks without internet - so this may be the last update for a little while. I'll see what I can do though! You're all terribly lovely, and thank you so much for your kindness!_


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: _Hello! It's been a while, and I apologise, but I can only say how touched I am by your continued support and enthusiasm for this fic even while I've been away. I had a wonderful holiday, and thank you so much for your kind reviews and comments!_

_Particular thanks and tea and cookies must go to Pemonynen this chapter, for being an absolute rock about it, and as always to EOlivet for her unceasing encouragement and finesse!_

_And, enjoy..!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

He'd asked her to stay. He wanted to stay, with her, in their bed, like… this. He'd… _asked_ her to stay.

Mary flushed breathlessly, stroking his cheek with shaking, disbelieving fingers, loving him, without the slightest doubt that if it was her choice, he would _not_ stay… but he'd _asked_ her. And she adored him for it.

"You don't have to ask," she whispered nevertheless, lips against his cheek, clutching tightly at his collar. "You don't ever have to ask me for that, but – thank you for asking it anyway, and – I wish that you would!"

"Of course." Matthew's voice was shaky, scared – almost terrified – but that breathless, anticipating fear was overborne by the utterly delighted, _happy_ grin that sparkled across his features. "Of course I did, and – I will – oh, Mary." He kissed her again, and this time it was familiar and unguarded, unfettered, and that felt so… _new_.

Consciously, Matthew exhaled as he kissed her, recognising the sensation of the softness and warmth of her lips under his and her body under his hands. He'd been so careful, _so _careful, to keep his touch from straying too far in recent weeks. It had seemed too dangerous, too tempting, too volatile, when they remembered… but he did not _want_ to remember. He wanted to re-learn her, her touch, her taste, and then they had not been married and now they were, and they _could_.

Awareness of this, the freedom of it… was intoxicating. Empowering. Exhilarating. Arousing. They _could_.

Mary felt as though the very air shifted around them in recognition, similar thoughts spiralling through her pleasure-fogged mind as her husband kissed her, and kissed her, and she felt his hand move – oh, for weeks now she'd trembled with unsatisfied anticipation, both of them too careful of it – but now she felt it, sighed, squirmed up against him, as his fingertips skimmed from her waist, up, to rediscover what felt so familiar, so _right_, his skin against the silk of her nightdress. As his thumb brushed the side of her breast – tentatively, hesitantly, as if he sought permission (she wordlessly gave her consent with a low murmur against his lips) – she shuddered… and gasped sharply, stiffening in his arms.

He was her _husband_, and yet for three months he had not _been_ her husband; not… properly. As they had kissed, before, the prospect of coming together in this way, of making love, as husband and wife, in their bed, had seemed still an impossible dream. Too much to hope for, it had been too long, so much had changed… So much had changed. Everything had changed. _She _had changed. Everything was… so very, very different, from any time they had before, and… Mary was suddenly very, very aware of it.

Matthew's hand stopped, half upon her breast, lifting his head and noticing things in this stilled moment that had seconds earlier been beyond his consciousness. The tick of the clock, the wind outside, the sheets of his bed that smelt so different, now, of Mary.

"What is it?" he breathed, blinking down at his wife, afraid of the sudden apprehension in her eyes. Every nerve and fibre of his body was on edge, aware, hypersensitive to her.

Mary bit her lip. She'd broken the moment, bitten again by her own vanity, the ridiculousness of this mocking her mercilessly. But… this, with Matthew, was still so new, and… how could she take it for granted? When everything they'd shared had been so long ago, so…

"It's – silly," she gasped, blinking harshly against the threat of moisture in her eyes. "But since we last –" How long ago it seemed, how young and stupid they were! She breathed. "I've changed, Matthew."

She was nearly shaking in his arms, and Matthew, distressed, lifted his hand from her torso to touch her face, cautiously, comfortingly.

"I know, darling. We've both changed – God, I know that! Things have… been difficult, but… isn't it good that this is different? Isn't that… what we wanted?"

"Yes! Oh, Matthew, it isn't that…" She closed her eyes and took a shuddering, fortifying breath before opening them again, her gaze clear and unblinking, meeting his. The smallest of smiles touched the corner of her lips. It had been so long… "It's been five months," she breathed, "And being five months pregnant, I'm afraid you can't expect me to look quite as I did when –"

Matthew's odd, shaky laugh cut her off. She stared at him, and he stared back at her, lips gently parted as his darkened eyes roved across her changed figure.

"You can't know how much that pleases me, my dear," he finally said with something approaching reverence in his voice.

It was true. He only thought of it now, only realised it, because till this point he hadn't allowed himself to think of her in this way at all. Because he didn't want to remember… If her slim, naked body in his arms writhed against his own just as it had, and she was just as she had been, he would remember, and – it was _good_ that this was different. A faint chill of memory ghosted through him, and he shivered, as if to tangibly brush it away. This was _now_, and new, and _them_.

Now, he allowed himself to look at and fully realise his wife's changed, beautiful… _beautiful_ form. Her slender neck, her freckle-dotted chest, her… rounder, fuller breasts, accentuated by the soft drape of silk that covered them. Raising himself higher on his elbows, holding himself above her, he saw now with adoring wonder how her nightdress clung over the swell of her belly, framing it, falling away across her shapely, sculpted legs… And he loved her, was overcome by her beauty, overwhelmed by the surge of deep, devastating desire that pulsed through his veins.

How had he been blind to this? To _her_?

He knew why. He had not _let_ himself see (what an utter, utter fool he was), had been too afraid of his own desire, and what it meant. He had been ashamed by it.

Shaking with heady anticipation, he lowered his head to kiss her. "My God, you are beautiful…" he whispered against her lips as they touched, slipped together, over, apart, _together_… Deepening, tasting, exploring… relearning.

Mary's low, appreciative hum encouraged Matthew, and his hand slipped down once more from her cheek, down the smoothness of her neck, her chest, finding its place finally on her breast in the gentlest caress. He groaned, and felt her tremble, and slowly… so slowly, his lips followed the path of his fingers. Her jaw, collarbone, so familiar to him (he fought the memory, pushed it away), fingers teasing the silk over her breast, baring it… lips tasting, sucking gently, and _God_, it was too much.

Her fingers were buried in his hair, her chest rose and fell with sharp, gasping breaths under his lips. It was _glorious_. Their legs had shifted together, one of Matthew's thighs nestled heavily between both of hers, and when she ground instinctively up against him, he groaned loudly around her breast.

Oh, God, it was happening. For months, they'd denied this, denied any thought of it. Months of being married, just not… _properly_. And now they were together, in the dark, husband and wife, aware only of soft mattress and sheets and skin, _each other_, and memories of sensation flooded back thick and fast. They were impossible to stem, it was too much, too perfect, they were too aware… Too conscious of it, of what this meant. It was too momentous. And the more arousal speared between them, the more they felt it, the more they remembered, the last time they had been like this… Trying desperately to forget that, and the pain that had followed… And the fear and the shame that Matthew had for so long since associated with such feelings, without warning, flooded helplessly over him.

He cried out, frustrated, fearful, as his arousal chilled as fiercely as it had arisen. Determined not to lose this – they were _together_, this was _happening_, he couldn't lose this now – he dragged his lips over her breast again, his palm teasing the other, his free hand slipping down the curve of her hip, but… nothing. He could not recapture it, and the more he tried, the more he failed, and… it was impossible. Mary was shaking so much from his ministrations to her sensitive body that she didn't notice at first when he stilled, when his lips had stopped their caress, when he then began to shiver in her arms.

"Matthew…" she breathed, stroking his hair and over his back, her own pleasure forgotten as the air around them seemed to cool and unwelcome memories of nakedness and shame pricked relentlessly back. But she didn't understand, he'd come to her, he'd asked her, he loved her. "What's –"

"I can't..." His voice was muffled against her chest, and she felt a dampness that she feared were tears, now, rather than the warm, wet heat of his tongue that she'd known only moments ago. "God, Mary, I – _can't_, I want to – oh, _God_, I want to…"

His breath shuddered through him, and Mary eased him up, taking his face in her hands, her eyes flicking between his, narrowed in distress.

Her brow creased to a gentle frown. "I don't understand…"

"For God's sake, I _can't, _I am – unable!" More harshly, more bitterly; threatening shadows of his former anger flashing across his face that made Mary blink. He pushed himself away, hunched over on the edge of the bed, Mary's fingers left grasping air where he had been.

She sat up, and reached gingerly out to his shoulder. He flinched but did not move. He seemed to simmer with frustration, pent up inside without release… betrayed by his own body. Slowly, Mary eased herself to perch behind him, ran her hands down his shoulders and arms, feeling him stiffen momentarily before relenting to her gentle, awkward embrace.

She could think of nothing to comfort him, still didn't fully understand, and so bit her lip, still stroking his arms as her chin rested on his shoulder. Soon he whispered; a quiet, broken sound. "How can I forget?" he asked, limply.

"I don't know."

"I want to," he whispered bitterly. "I want to, and I want – _you_, so much – you must know that."

"I do." She dropped a little kiss just behind his ear, and sighed heavily. "Don't… blame yourself, Matthew. There's no point in it when I am as much at fault for –"

"Oh don't be -" Matthew snapped, stopped himself, and stood up brusquely. Frustration raged within him. "You made one helpless mistake, we've laid all that to rest, but I have only let you down! As a friend, as a lover if that's how you'd ever have classed our relationship; and I've been a pretty terrible husband to you since then. And even now I _want_ to I can't – and what if I never – oh, God, I'm sorry."

He strode towards the door, shaking his head. Before his hand could touch the doorknob it reached for, Mary had risen labouredly to her feet.

"Where are you going?" she challenged him.

"Back to bed," he returned with a miserable shrug. "I am no good to you here, am I?" His shame would not allow him to stay.

Her hands balled into tight fists of rage at his implication, and how obstinately pitiful his self-worth was.

"Do you think that – _that_ is all I care about?" she gasped furiously, gesturing between them at their flushed bodies, to which their nightclothes now clung with sweat. Matthew's eyes widened, but she carried on, one hand resting protectively on her belly as if she might shelter her child from this. Perhaps it was too much, but he was being ridiculous! "Is that what you think of me now, that I am a – _slut_ who sees no _point_ in you if can't – _service_ me in bed? What if I just wanted to be with you?"

"Why would you want to be?" he flung back, anger coursing through him. "When I have done _nothing_ but cause you injury?"

"Are you being purposefully so obtuse? Matthew, I love you –"

"Then you're a fool to do so –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

"Mary, I'm sorry," he finished, lowering his head, knowing that he had shattered this (whatever _this_ had been between them) irreparably.

Mary bristled. "Go, then," she said bitterly. "But sometimes, Matthew Crawley, you are a coward. An absolute _coward_, who runs away from his troubles."

"My trouble is _myself_. I can hardly run away from that."

She could only shake her head, and turn away; and moments later she heard the door behind her slam with unnecessary force.

* * *

Matthew left for work very early the next morning, without breakfast and only a muttered excuse about needing to get there before the post came that day. Mary barely looked at him.

He didn't blame her.

All night, and all day, her accusing words had rung loudly in his head, impossible to ignore. He knew she was right, he _knew_ he was a coward and a pretty shameful excuse for a man and a husband, but he couldn't begin to know what to do about it. He'd _tried_, hadn't he? He _wanted_ to make things right, hadn't that been the main thing? He'd thought so, at the time.

_This_, though… seemed beyond his control, which seemed _ridiculous_, and infuriated him as it made him burn with shame. Mocked by his own body, tormented for his past sins, that was the only way he could see it. After ignoring, rejecting, _denying_ the reality of his beautiful _Mary_ for so long – after months of being ashamed to desire her, of refusing to allow himself to, of convincing himself that he _must not_ because it had led only to suffering – was physical inability now his punishment for such stupidity?

He felt wretched. How could he be _unable_ to love his wife? What was _wrong_ with him? All afternoon, his work was the last thing on his mind as he sat alone at his desk, and thought of Mary, of everything about her… Forcing past the self-imposed barrier he had shielded those thoughts behind, to think of her body, her breath, her touch, her taste, _all_ of her, that he'd been so scared to consider for so long. He closed his eyes and tried to think of her, tried to forget everything else, just _her_, and _them_… and every time, the moment the heat within him began to build, and stir, he became too conscious of it and it faded without trace. And the harder he tried, the more his frustration simmered, until beads of sweat prickled his hairline and his body trembled with effort, until the blossoming, aching love and desire he was clinging to in his heart became lost within his concentration and anger.

At last he decided that his office was hardly a place conducive to working out the mess of his body and mind, and left early, choosing to bicycle a lengthier, more secluded route home from the station through the Abbey's estate. Truth be told, he couldn't bear to face Mary. She must either hate him or – worse – pity him. In the back of his mind somewhere he knew that he could not overcome this without her. But he was too afraid of trying again, and failing again, and her thinking less of him than she already must.

_Matthew Crawley, you are a coward_.

A coward, a sinner, a cruel and, apparently _impotent,_ husband. He was hardly a man, or so it felt.

His mind flashed back unhelpfully to so long ago; that day, that argument, that dinner, that evening… The Turk. A sick wave of jealousy flushed over Matthew as he remembered. He didn't _want_ to remember, no wonder she'd – _oh, God_. He couldn't think like that. He wanted to forget.

* * *

It was not until the evening began to draw in that Mary saw him. She'd been out herself, escaped to the Dower House for afternoon tea and the distraction of Granny's gossip from Aunt Rosamund's latest letter. She hadn't wanted to see Matthew. She was sick of his self-pity, and angry with him for falling back into it. For giving up. For not being man enough about it to have some self-respect.

Staring out of the car window, she sighed deeply. She knew Matthew, and… she knew how her barbed words must have stung him, and… it wasn't his _fault_. Thinking back to the previous night, he _had_ loved her, he _had_ wanted her. He'd said so, and she'd believed him. And hadn't she felt that restraint, that frustration, that longing for more in his kisses?

As the car drew up to Crawley House, she saw him; crouched outside on the path beside his bicycle. His jacket lay flung over the wall, and he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. Oil stained his hands, and forearms, and an ache of love burst in her chest. She wondered if he'd even known she was out, if he'd stayed out of the house only to avoid her. She wasn't sure she could blame him, but then she'd long ago tried to stop blaming herself.

"What on earth are you doing?" she called out curiously, neutrally, stepping out of the car.

Startled, Matthew glanced around at her before blinking fixedly back at the workings of his bicycle in front of him.

"Got a stone caught in the chain," he muttered. "And it needed a bit of maintenance anyway."

Mary watched as he pursed his lips, seeing the muscles of his forearms tense and flex, before something within the bicycle's mechanism snapped and clicked. Matthew grunted in satisfaction, sitting back against the wall and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of oil mingling with the sweat on his brow. Mary smiled.

"I didn't know a bicycle was so complicated," she admitted.

"It isn't really. Pretty easy to fix, if you know how."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad. Is it serviceable again?"

Matthew stretched an arm out and ran his finger along the freshly oiled chain, wondering at how some things were so easily mended. If only he could mend himself…

"Yes, I should think so."

"Ah, good."

The late afternoon sun shone warmly in the sky, and Mary wandered away from her husband into the garden. Somehow, she knew he would follow her. She sat down carefully on the little white-painted bench, twirling a daffodil contemplatively between her fingers.

Matthew stood up slowly, stretched, grimacing at the feel of his shirt clinging damply to his back. He did follow her, and sat down beside her, hands in his lap, careful distance maintained.

They were silent for a while.

"I'm sorry –"

"Do you know –" They both began at the same time, laughed, and shook their heads. Both stared at the daffodil, not at each other.

Matthew spoke first.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said quietly. "And about this morning. And… for all of it. Please don't think any of it reflects on you, I wish –"

"I don't," she interrupted. "I know that, darling. I only wish I could help you."

He smiled, tapping his fingers together slowly. Then,

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing much, only that I felt the baby move, or kick, or something, for the first time last night. After you'd gone, I think it knew I was –"

"Oh, Mary…"

She said it so calmly, so simply. Matthew gazed at her, overwhelmed, aching to take her hand and at last he did, grinning tremulously as her fingers tightened around his. Conflicting emotions surged between them, around them, within them. It was their baby, she was so beautiful, but, _but_… Always, that '_but'_. How could it be forgotten? It was impossible.

A sigh trembled between them.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

She took a breath. "Do you know when it was, that I realised I loved you?"

He realised he had no idea. He hadn't the faintest.

"No, I don't." He still couldn't fathom why she _did_, or ever had.

"I realised it far too late. When it was too late, after… but, before we… I knew when you came to see me, that day. All at once, I just knew that I did."

"Oh. Why… are you telling me now?" His finger absently rubbed along hers, stroking, soothing, distracting.

Mary licked her lips. "Because I wanted you to know why I… It – overwhelmed me, you see." She tossed her head, trying to cool herself, bile rising in her throat at the more unpleasant memories but knowing she must tell him. It was… comforting, to do so. Cathartic. "I hadn't known because I hadn't realised… there was more to it. What we had. When – Kemal – came into my bedroom –"

Matthew stiffened uncomfortably, and she stopped.

"No… go on," he said quietly. It stung, but it was like drawing out a thorn, or pouring antiseptic on a wound. And he still didn't know why she was telling him, but she wanted to, and so he dutifully listened.

She nodded, and shrugged. "I didn't turn him away because I stupidly thought that I already knew, that it wouldn't… be that bad, if he was going to refuse to leave anyway." A sudden, bitter laugh slipped from her lips, and Matthew's fingers clasped more tightly around hers. "Because _we_ had done it, and it hadn't ever hurt so I thought it wouldn't matter, and he was leaving in the morning anyway. Stupid, really."

"Darling, you couldn't have –"

"No, don't excuse it. There's no point in that." She laid a hand on his arm gently, meeting his eyes for the first time. And though they were full of pain, there was… something else. She smiled. "I felt horrible in the morning. Never mind that he'd –" The words trailed into a gasp; _that_ was too much, still, to speak of.

Matthew's thumbs still stroked, stroked, stroked over hers, and she concentrated on the sensation, drawing strength from him. "I can't tell you how awful I felt. I wanted to rid myself of the whole thing, of every trace of him on my skin but I couldn't. I wanted to forget all of it, but I couldn't. And then you came, and you were so –" She stopped, blinked, shook her head, struggling to express it. "I know that you hated me for what we did then. That I took you there, and we – after I'd –"

"Mary, please…"

His voice broke, and Mary looked up to see his blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. Smiling through her own, she sniffed and lifted a hand to his cheek.

"But I want you to know, Matthew," she said softly. "Because you've thought I must hold you in comparison – no, don't pretend that you haven't, it's alright – you thought I was heartless and perhaps in a way it was heartless of me. For that I truly am sorry, darling. But can you understand that I wanted to? I wanted to… know you again because I thought you could take it away; or something like that anyway."

Only now did she blush, her fingers trembling in his hand, and they smiled faintly. "Perhaps it isn't very proper of me to say, but I thought you should know. That – he was everything that was wrong, and bad, and you were – well, the opposite. And if you ever – _ever_ – thought that it was anything like the same… Well, you'd be very wrong."

Matthew knew, because such openness was so unlike Mary, how utterly sincere she was. He blinked, and looked down at their entwined hands, resting lightly on the top of Mary's rounded belly. He still didn't want to think of Pamuk and his wife, it still hurt, but now that he did… What she had said… He couldn't associate their child with that, with something that had been so wrong. And beneath his hand he felt a flutter, an indefinable shift, and he smiled breathlessly. He didn't know what to say, and a strange lightness glowed in his chest. He didn't know how to feel.

Beside him, Mary exhaled a deep breath, and he was suddenly aware of sunlight on the back of his neck and the scent of flowers. Of his wife's fingertips against his palm, of her warmth beside him. He had loved her… _so_ much. And if she had realised it a little later – well, he didn't blame her for that now. He knew, and that was what mattered. She loved him. They had been happy. They had been _so_ happy, if so briefly, and it had been _so_ beautiful, so carefree, so… heady, intense, _wonderful_, what they had shared. And now they were married, and… there was nothing to stand in the way of their happiness again. It was a revelation.

For so long, he'd been trying to forget. But of course, that was impossible. Mary had realised it. The only thing they _could_ do… was remember; and in that, find new, better memories.

Tenderly, he lowered his head and kissed the back of her hand. Her skin was like silk against his lips, and he breathed, and straightened again to kiss her cheek. His lips lingered there, softly, telling her everything he couldn't yet say, and then he kissed her lips.

"Thank you, my darling," he breathed against her mouth. Leaning back, he suddenly seemed to remember the state of himself; his dampened, clinging shirt, the dirty oil smears on his arms and hands, his open collar. "I'd better… clean up before dinner," he murmured, smiling.

"I think you better had," Mary laughed, and indulgently watched him walk inside with enormous and overpowering affection. For a few minutes more, she enjoyed the warm sunshine and the peace of the garden. She felt as if an impossible weight had lifted from her shoulders, and she smiled. Stroking the considerable swell where her (no, _their_) baby lay, she felt… _happy_.

**TBC **

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading :) I must admit I found it a very difficult, and sensitive, chapter to write, in trying to tie up all their issues in a hopefully cathartic manner to bring them at last to a fresh page together... But I hope very much that it worked for you. I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you :)_


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: _This chapter is dedicated to EOlivet, for her birthday yesterday, as traditionally we write each other fics (Last year was ATiL Chapter 2!). Thank you all so much for your support and encouragement. Particular thanks to EOlivet as always for her polish, and Pemonynen and Silvestria for helping with some details here :)_

_At this point I feel it's relevant to just remind you all that this is an M-rated fic...  
_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Oh. Oh, how very sad."

Isobel's fingers tensed around the letter she held, the paper thin and fragile in her grip. The atmosphere up to that moment, as for the last few days now that Isobel thought about it, had been noticeably lighter – _easier_, somehow – than it had… well, ever, since Mary had joined them here. And now once more it cooled, and stilled.

"What is it, Mother?" Matthew glanced up from his morning newspaper, and beside him Mary's eyes flicked curiously between the two.

"Lily Walker has died, of pneumonia they think. Mind you she was never a very well lady, so I suppose it had to happen one day, but – how terrible for her children."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Matthew frowned in due sympathy. "But they're none of them – _little_ children, by now, surely? Not that that makes it any better I suppose."

"No, it doesn't, but you're right. Little Malcolm must be… well, nineteen now, I'd imagine!"

"Crikey."

"Anyway the funeral is… the twelfth of May, which is… two days time. I can leave tomorrow, then –"

"Should I come too?" Matthew looked so earnestly sincere, and Isobel calmed a little and smiled.

"Only if you want to, dear." She saw his brow tighten in thought, that gentle purse of his lips that signified a conflict of duty… and then she saw his wife's anxious (though trying not to appear so) eyes upon him. Her smile fondly, perhaps oddly, widened. "But I shouldn't think it's necessary. You hardly knew her well, and I can pass on your wishes."

Matthew blinked, and nodded, fingers ghosting thoughtfully along the handle of his teacup.

"Alright. Well perhaps I won't, then, I've got… matters here that I can't, or shouldn't, really… leave."

Isobel quite understood.

In the hallway only minutes later, Matthew stooped to pick up his briefcase as Mary's hands smoothed down the lapels of his coat. Molesley, as he had learnt to lately, stood out on the path holding Matthew's bicycle ready.

"I didn't want to pry, but who's Lily Walker?" Mary whispered quickly. "You don't seem too upset – I'm sure it's very selfish of me to be glad you're not going with your mother but there it is."

He chuckled as he bent to kiss her softly. "I think she lived next door to us when I was a little boy. It's very sad of course but I can barely remember, and – well, darling you're _here_, and – I thought it might be nice to have a little time alone together..."

His hand slipped around her waist to the small of her back as they kissed, and she leaned awkwardly against him on her tiptoes. They smiled.

"Perhaps we could have dinner together," she murmured against his jaw, feeling a warm glow spread at the prospect of an evening alone with her husband. One that they might now look forward to, rather than dread.

"I'd like that..." He ducked his head and nipped her lower lip softly between his teeth. "But… aren't we dining at the big house tomorrow?"

"Oh." She drew back, letting her thumb slip fondly across his lip as she frowned, then brightened. "I'm having tea with Granny and Mama later today. They won't mind if I excuse us, I'm sure."

* * *

Cora's eyes lit up helplessly as she lifted her hand from Mary's abdomen, where she'd just felt the long-forgotten sensation of an unborn baby's little kick.

"How thrilling," she cooed through a teary smile, ignoring completely Violet's faint air of disapproval at such unguarded displays of emotion. "How do you feel, darling?"

"Perfectly wonderful," Mary beamed. For the first time in her pregnancy she truly seemed it, almost glowing. Happiness and a quiet sort of pride radiated from her, and to her mother it was the most wonderful sight.

"I'm so glad. Sybil and Edith will think it delightful – after dinner, of course – you and Matthew are coming, tomorrow, still?"

Mary picked up her teacup. "Actually, we'd hoped you'd excuse us tomorrow after all –"

"Mary! Why on earth? Certainly not, have you forgotten Colonel Rafferty's visiting, and his wife?"

She had forgotten, completely, and sighed.

"You couldn't possibly miss them," Violet added drily. "They are your godparents, don't forget, and as such must take the opportunity to furnish your husband with all those delightful anecdotes of your childhood he won't yet have heard."

"Really, Granny, I barely remember them –"

"And of course I suppose Mrs. Rafferty is another gentlewoman to add to the queue of those who you'd think had never seen a woman with child, before, the way they fuss." The Dowager Countess looked pointedly at Cora. Oh, she was terribly pleased if Mary was happy, there was no doubt about that – and really it had all worked out very well to be with Matthew, at least, if he must be Robert's heir – but that was no excuse for excessive sentimentality, she thought. Mary rolled her eyes.

"Anyway it's arranged, now," Cora frowned. "You know they've lived in Africa since the war, and have come all this way –"

"Then surely they'll be here for more than tomorrow evening?" Mary tried. "The thing is, Isobel's going away tomorrow –"

"Even more reason to come for some company, darling! Rather than being all alone in Crawley House –"

Mary blushed deeply, taking a quick sip of her tea. She hadn't expected needing to justify this, so much! Well, she didn't much care what they thought; she may as well be honest.

"Actually, that's rather the point. Matthew and I had thought it might be nice to take the opportunity to spend some time together and have dinner alone."

Violet scoffed a little. "But my dear, why would you want to do that? You've plenty of hours in the day to see your husband; you've your entire lives for that, and that is quite enough for most people!"

"Would it shock you so terribly," Mary sighed imperiously, losing patience, "to believe that we value and enjoy spending time together, because we happen to be in love? I suppose you –"

"Now, darling…" Cora patted her arm. Mary turned to look sharply at her, eyes glittering with determination, and her mother tried to smile conciliatorily. "Of course you do, I understand that. But your grandmother is right –" She breathed an infuriated sigh as she practically felt Violet's glow of victory at the admission. "There'll be plenty more evenings you may spend with Matthew, and it's not as though it's the first opportunity you've had – but Colonel and Mrs. Rafferty will only be with us for tomorrow evening so you'll miss them otherwise."

Mary's lips parted to retort, but she knew before any words came that further argument was useless. Propriety demanded it, and being old friends of her father's (and technically her godparents though Mary could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually met them, and not since she was fifteen years old), she knew that her attendance was inarguable.

"That would be a shame," she said with a tight smile, reflexively seeking comfort in the soothing stroke of her palm against her belly. To a point, her mother was right; it wasn't for either her or Granny to know that she and Matthew had thus far rejected their opportunities to chance any real time alone in the evenings. It was insufferable. "Of course, we'll be there."

She stirred her tea in preference to seeing their satisfied smiles.

* * *

"I am sorry, darling," she said yet again as she clasped a pair of earrings on, and dabbed perfume at her wrists.

Matthew leaned against the open bedroom door, watching with a kind of fascination the strangely intimate ritual (though he only saw the finishing touches) of Anna readying his wife.

"Mary, please, stop," he chuckled. "We'll have other chances, plenty. Mother hasn't seen my aunt since our wedding, I'm sure I could persuade her it's about time for a visit. To be quite honest if I simply told her we'd like to –"

She interrupted him. "Oh, Matthew! I know all that, perfectly well. But – an evening in a few week's time isn't… _this_ evening." Almost shy of such an admission, she busied herself by drawing on her long evening gloves, and so missed her husband's expression softening into immense tenderness.

"I'll go and ready your coat, Milady," Anna broke their silence quietly and bobbed deferentially past Matthew into the hallway downstairs.

Slowly, silently beyond their gentle breaths, Matthew entered the bedroom and stood behind his wife at her vanity… resting his hands on her shoulders, thumbs stroking her neck, bending to kiss her cheek. A frisson shivered between them; they froze, realising it… less afraid of it, now.

"You look divine," he whispered against her neck, and helped her to her feet, keeping a supportive hand on her lower back as they left.

* * *

As it happened, Colonel Rafferty was an enormously good-natured, entertaining man, and the evening was most enjoyable. Having stayed in South Africa since the war in which he'd fought alongside Robert, he had a seemingly endless supply of exotic, adventurous tales that his wife was more than happy to sit by and allow him to tell.

Matthew listened with amusement, but never with his full concentration. Though he smiled, and laughed at each appropriate moment and with genuine humour, he was at every moment conscious of Mary beside him. He stayed close by her, even when Sybil and Evangeline Rafferty crowded around to try and feel the baby kick, bearing a gentle smile of pride. And though Mary was bright with happiness, he felt it when her shoulders sunk just a little lower and heard the quietest sigh in her breath, and shepherded her away from the stifling attention to sit down and rest a moment. She squeezed his fingers in wordless thanks.

Throughout dinner, he sat by her side; and beneath the table and between courses their fingers would twine together in stolen moments as they joined in the chatter. The little, shivering thrill of it reminded them of those distant weeks of romance, that tentative, testing exploration… Was that touch alright? Could anyone see? Did that little smirk, that twinkle in the eye, suggest… _later_? And when the table was cleared of the main course for dessert, Matthew slipped the salt shaker beneath the table, knowing (though he couldn't for the life of him say why) that Mary would demand it sprinkled over her éclairs rather than sugar.

When the ladies retired at the end of the meal, Matthew couldn't suppress his grin as Mary walked past him to leave, her slender fingers trailing fondly down his arm that left him aching from her absence.

The three men settled to their port, and Matthew could not truly claim any surprise when the topic inevitably, and quickly, came up.

"Dreadful news about the Titanic, last year, of course." The Colonel's moustache twitched as he quirked a thoughtful smile. The anniversary of the sinking had passed only weeks ago, and Matthew hadn't known how to feel about it. "It must have been a blow to lose both James and Patrick – you'll pardon me saying so, Matthew."

"Oh, don't mind about that, please." He smiled quickly and swallowed some port, holding up a hand to turn down Robert's customary offer of a cigar. "There's nothing to be done about it, and of course you knew them."

The Earl lit his own. "It was a dreadful shame, of course. For all of us. But…" He glanced at Matthew, inclining his head in silent acknowledgement. "Even the darkest cloud most often has a silver lining. I think that's proven itself."

"That's very kind of you to say, Sir," Matthew said quietly.

"Well," Rafferty sat back heavily in his chair. "Awful as it must have been, things seem to have worked out for the best – from what I can see, at least! It must be a comfort to have things settled, dear chap, as they should have been."

Matthew bristled silently at the sentiment that had rankled with him from the start. He hadn't married Mary for _that_! Though he could hardly claim the purest reasons for their marriage besides, it most _certainly_ hadn't been _that_. His fingers tightened around his glass as he prepared to defend himself, releasing his breath in a surprised rush as Robert began doing it for him.

"I wouldn't say that, not as they _should_ have been," he said, frowning gently. Matthew held his breath. "There'd never have been any question of that, I'm quite sure." The Earl and his heir looked to each other, and shared a knowing smile. "But things take their course as they will, and naturally I couldn't be more thrilled."

After what had happened, such words (and said with such weight and sincerity as they were) meant a great deal to Matthew.

"Neither could I," he agreed, happiness blossoming once more in his chest as he thought of Mary, his wife, and how far it felt they had come. "Though believe me, if you'd have told me a year ago that I'd be heir to the Earl of Grantham and married to his eldest daughter with a child on the way… I think you'd have shortly been seeing me in South Africa, Colonel!"

All three laughed heartily. "And I'd have thrown you straight on the next ship back to England!" the elder man grinned at Matthew. "Because quite honestly, my lad, I've rarely seen a man happier. Even for a newlywed! Since… February, did I hear?"

"Yes, that's right! The third."

"Lovely, lovely. In which case, the little one is due…?"

As Matthew felt his cheeks colour at the question, he wondered whether it was asked in innocent curiosity or in deeper suspicion. They'd been married for three short months, and with such timing even he objectively knew that the stage of Mary's pregnancy was impossible. It took a slight, encouraging nod from Robert before he answered, without shame,

"In the autumn – Mary and I couldn't be happier, though of course we've still a lot to prepare." It was the truth, if not so precise an answer as to satisfy curiosity. And before he could be pressed any more on it, he politely asked the Colonel how it had been to bring up his own children in such a vastly different country to this.

* * *

It wasn't long after rejoining the ladies that Matthew and Mary made their excuses. She turned to him with silently pleading eyes, a communication that only he understood, and within minutes they were saying what a lovely evening it had been but Mary was quite worn out, though they were so glad they had come and what a pleasure it had been to meet the Colonel and his wife. And their fingers laced together in solidarity long before they got to the car.

Once safely ensconced within it, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

"As entertaining as this evening turned out to be," Matthew exhaled, tipping his head back to stretch his neck, "I must say I'm glad it's over."

"Mmm," Mary murmured in agreement. She _was_ tired, and grateful for the strength of Matthew's shoulder as her cheek lay to rest on it. There was no tension between them, not now, and they were able to relax and be entirely at ease. She breathed deeply, feeling her lips curve naturally into a contented smile as she felt her hand rest within Matthew's on his thigh. She liked it being there, being intimate but not improper, and flexed her fingers just to be more aware of it.

Arriving back at Crawley House, Matthew let his wife lean on his arm as they went inside. The house was quiet, and they stood awkwardly in the hall. They were tired, but neither felt ready to go to bed, yet – they still had not slept together, there hadn't been the right moment, there was plenty of time after all – and for this evening, they were not yet ready to part.

"Let's sit down for a little while," Matthew said, and when Molesley came to take their coats Matthew asked him to bring them some tea.

The house was oddly quiet, without Isobel. But they liked it. It was peaceful... and Mary was sure, as they sat down together on the settee, that had Isobel been there Matthew would not have sat so closely beside her, or put his arm around her, or eased her back so comfortably against his chest as he reclined.

A wonderful calm settled over them. Mary could almost have slept, there, if she weren't so very aware of Matthew's heartbeat, firm and steady near her ear.

"Are you comfortable, my dear?" he asked softly.

"Exquisitely," she answered.

Soon, Molesley brought the tea in, and they sat up straighter for the sake of propriety.

"Thank you," Matthew smiled. "Actually Molesley, you may as well go to bed. I'm not tired, yet, so there's no need for you to stay up too. Really, it's alright."

The butler hesitated. "If – you're quite sure, Sir…"

"Certainly." Then without thinking, because it almost didn't seem fair otherwise, he added, "And please, tell Miss Smith the same as well."

Mary raised her eyebrow, unnoticed, but did not raise any objection as Molesley duly bid them goodnight and then left.

The sitting room was warm; not excessively so, but cosy. Mary leaned down to take her shoes off (something else she was sure she would not have done with Isobel in the room), but when Matthew noticed her efforts he quickly slipped off the settee to his knees by her feet, and took over the task. She was breathless as he unbuckled them, shivering at his fingers ghosting across her silk-encased feet as he set the shoes aside.

"Better?" he smiled up at her, and she nodded. "Good."

When he stood up, he shrugged his dinner jacket off. Sitting back down, his hands went to loosen his bow-tie, and he held his breath as Mary swatted his hands away and tugged it off herself. With great care, she undid the top button of his shirt, and then the next, smiling indulgently to herself as the delicate skin of Matthew's neck became just a little exposed. More comfortable, now, they settled back together on the settee.

They were warm, and content, and alone, and _happy_.

His hand stroked lazily up, and down, her bare arm. It made her skin prickle and shiver, but she liked it. His touch was familiar, and she had craved it for so long…

"Mary?" he murmured. "I'm so… pleased, that we married." Something about the evening darkness and the warmth and intimacy of it had shed any restraint, or fear. "Whatever has happened – all of it, in fact. I said to Colonel Rafferty this evening that I couldn't be happier, and… I meant it, darling."

She twisted awkwardly in his arms, and her warm lips found his jaw.

"Thank you," she said quietly, breathing carefully against the lump of raw emotion in her throat. For so long, that was all she had wanted… That simple assurance: that her husband wanted to be with her. At the outset of their marriage, such a seemingly obvious ideal had seemed an impossible one. And now… it was her reality; however little she felt she deserved it.

She could not express this in words… and instinctively began to express it with her lips, instead; with warm, wet, tender kisses that roamed from his throat to his neck to his jaw, to his mouth that opened languidly to hers.

They kissed, and relished it, and allowed it… unhurried, imperfect, indulgent. They shifted together, and as they did so the atmosphere, the very air, shifted with them. The warmth prickled slowly to heat, the heat prickled their skin with every touch, and every touch awakened in them the recognition of that which they had not acknowledged they longed for.

From unhurried, to eager, to impatient, with every moment that passed until their kisses were desperate and messy, lips sucking at deft tongues that searched and found and loved. Hands rediscovered the landscape they had once known so well, and learning which were changed… curves and hollows and softness that trembled under touch. It was so easy, so natural, so… _right_. Far more than what they had tried to create, or re-create, before.

When Mary's palm grazed the front of Matthew's trousers – for a moment she'd held back, ashamed to be so brazen, before remembering that his body was her entitlement, now – his eyes snapped open in a gasp of pleasure, as memory jolted through him.

"Darling," he panted against her neck, against her already damp skin from his tongue and her sweat. "We're – here."

She moaned softly, and lifted her head, her body restless and aching for him.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Here…" he said again, and looked around him, at the familiar blue walls of the sitting room that had been the same in the afternoon daylight so many months ago. "Where we were – the first time – together –"

"Oh…" she breathed, and kissed him, and remembered.

"And darling, we will be – the last time," he whispered, and now she realised the depth of the tenderness that burned beneath his passion. Not _here_, she understood… but _them_. The first time… _them_… and the last time… _them_. Nothing beyond that mattered, nothing beyond that existed, not now. Not between _them_.

"Absolutely, my love."

What worries they'd had in the past were forgotten, entirely out of mind, as they stoked the tentative flames of their arousal to a roaring furnace. They _could_, and they _were_…

As Matthew writhed out of Mary's embrace, his waistcoat thrown off and shirt half undone, she gave a soft whimper of protest. But then… he was at her feet, moving up, his hands and his lips learning and worshipping every curve of her calf as he made way to her thighs. She gasped, shifted instinctively to make it easier, had no shame in tugging up the hem of her dress to see the reality of his lips moving up past the silk of her stockings to skin.

It was heavenly, and she moaned loudly in pleasure… and when he lifted his head to ask if this was alright, she nodded quickly, and bit her lip as she watched him lower again, then felt him… His hands mercilessly dragged down the silk that shielded her (Did it tear? She didn't care), and she moaned again, louder, helplessly, as his lips and his tongue and his fingers rediscovered her, and freed her from the constraints of shame that she'd placed around herself. For this could _not_ be shameful, it was adoring, and _perfect_…

Her body quaked, hands fisting the thin cushions of the settee, as he shifted rhythmically from the deft flick of his tongue to sucking, softly, eagerly, and back. The gentle stroke of his fingers that gradually eased within her (she shuddered, she'd forgotten the feel of him there) combined with his mouth and reduced his wife to a quivering , glorious mass of sensation. It was hedonistic, and unrestrained, and every breath became an audible expression of her pleasure as she could not think of _anything_ beyond what he was doing to her. He groaned against her… quickened, _loved_, pleasured her… And when she glanced down, saw his head between her legs, _felt_ his mouth and his fingers and his hand where he gripped her hips, she _thought_ about what he was doing… and she shattered, screamed, cried out her release that overtook her like a towering wave, robbing her body of all power and breath.

She lay, weak, sated, gasping for breath, and her fingers found his hair in a loving caress.

"Oh God," he murmured against the crook of her thigh. "I have missed you…"

Happiness brimmed from her in a laugh, and she slid carefully down and into his arms on the floor. He kissed her, eased her over to lie protectively above her, and they didn't notice the discomfort of it as their lips resumed eager, searching kisses and their bodies instinctively moved to find each other and fit.

As Mary's quick fingers made work of Matthew's shirt, he stopped her suddenly.

"What?" she hissed, eyes widening with the flash of worry that it was not forgotten… it was not alright… But he proved her worry for nought.

"Not here, darling." His voice was so soft and his expression so tender that her love for him overwhelmed her. "Not like this. Shall we –"

"Yes."

He helped her to her feet, their limbs aching from a tension both sated and unfulfilled. Matthew stooped to pick up their few scattered clothes – the tea was forgotten and cold, he noticed, but never mind – and they hurried upstairs.

Their bedroom was dark, but they didn't think to put the light on as they entered its sheltered privacy. Here, they had been their most honest, their most vulnerable… and here they would put all of that to rest and unite.

This time, it was Matthew who undressed her, turning her and unfastening her dress, unlacing her corset, watching as they fell away from her. She raised her arms and he pulled off her camisole, then knelt and peeled down her stockings, peppering her legs with kisses as he went, as she sat on the side of the bed. He saw each freckle, each shadow, each highlight on her skin that was the colour of ivory and marble, as he bared her. When she was naked (and she felt her skin colour with the heat of his gaze at her changed body, though not with shame), she wriggled back on the bed to accommodate him… and she gasped in surprise when he didn't undress but crawled between her legs, pushed her thighs apart and lowered his head again, tasting her again, licking at her softness and heat and wetness with a low, appreciative groan.

"Matthew!" She feebly tried to push him away, her fingers sunk into his hair again, wanting _his_ pleasure now… "You can't – again…"

But when he paused only to murmur against her, "Oh, I can… and I want to, darling… Please," her fingers curled instead to hold him there, her head flung back in unthinkable ecstasy as desperate, almost sobbing gasps escaped her lips. She succumbed happily to his fingers, his tongue, and this time it went on, and on, until she felt gloriously raw and her body shook so much that she could not control it. Her hips bucked against his mouth, and she let out a long, shuddering cry, and he held her… and calmed her, with slow kisses, gentle strokes, until every inch of her skin seemed to tingle with warmth.

She used his body to lever herself up, to reach the loosened belt of his trousers, and he stood to let her undo and push them down as he shrugged off his shirt. He waited, while she watched, and felt warmth spread in radiating waves as she perched on the side of the bed and stared at him, luxuriating in her wanting gaze. He hadn't realised how close she was… How she had only to ease forwards to touch him, to lower her head to take him in her mouth, and his hand shot out to grasp the bedpost for support. His knees were weak, but she gave him strength, her hands searching everywhere she could reach of his body as she loved him with her mouth. His head fell back and he groaned, it began in his chest and spilled from his lips much louder than he realised, his awareness too honed on her wet lips and hot tongue and slender fingers to care.

Soon, too soon, he felt himself tremble, his control slip… and his hands that had been stroking her hair and her shoulders now eased her gently back, and they both sighed as her lips slipped from his length. He lay over her, held her in his arms as he whispered his desire into the hair behind her ear, and she breathlessly gave him consent, felt her whole body stiffen in perfect anticipation in the moment before he slid within her. Their flesh seemed to fuse, perfect and hot and wet, their sweat-slicked skin slipping together as they thrust… leisurely at first, trying to memorise the feel of it, before they remembered they had their whole lives to rediscover and remember this feeling… Mary felt it, _him_, so deeply within her, so fundamentally, that they seemed to be one being. One being, one body, one mind, as they sought to give and release, to pleasure, to soar. They had waited so long, had wanted _so _much, that their patience soon gave out to quick thrusts, grasping hands, hot lips that whispered adoration in sharp, gasping breaths.

He overtook her, and she him, and their cries fused together with their skin in the darkness. She was safe in his arms, and as his hips pumped against hers faster and faster she had no fear, only joy, and her body shook and hot pressure built , spreading from her centre to her fingertips and her toes, into him, indistinguishable and overwhelming as it broke over her and her nails dug into his shoulders. He felt it, from within her, and all of it blurred together as he thrust quicker, harder, until it exploded within him in a raw burst of ecstasy and a loud, guttural cry.

He fell instinctively to her side, and she curled against him. And for a long time, they didn't move… only to stroke their hands, fingers linking naturally together, over the curve of her belly that sheltered their child within.

"Our baby," Mary murmured sleepily, and Matthew's lips curved into a smile against her cheek.

"Our baby," he consented, and in this blissful aftermath it was the only reality that seemed possible.

Eventually, he shifted and pulled the sheets over them both, and took Mary in his arms again. He held her, stroked her back, her hair, every part of her that he had neglected for so long as if he could somehow make up for those months. "My darling wife," he breathed… and in his sleep- and pleasure-fogged mind, he was strikingly aware that she really, finally… _properly_… was.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading, and I very much hope you enjoyed it. I can't tell you how lovely it was to write them happily! But they're finally over the worst of their demons and united. Though the story isn't quite finished yet... just a couple more chapters to go. Of course I'd love to know what you thought, your comments are always so welcome. Thank you! :)_


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: _I'm so, so, so, so sorry that it's taken me so many months to update this. I know it might have seemed as though I'd forgotten, with all the ficlets I've written in the meantime, but the fact was that this fic is just such a different quantity to anything else, that I had to afford it far more time, effort and thought - and at last I've had the opportunity to!_

_I know it's been a long time, so I'm not sure what interest there'll be still, but nevertheless I am determined to finish and I hope very much that those of you still following will enjoy this next chapter! _

_Thank you so, so much for your continued enthusiasm and encouragement, with your reviews, favourites, follows, messages, both here and on Tumblr... it's meant such a lot to me to know that people haven't forgotten about it. _

_Many thanks to EOlivet for her endless support and encouragement, and likewise to Pemonynen who kindly beta-ed this chapter for me so that I could get it to you before Christmas!_

_I'll be quiet now. Enjoy! :)_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

It was slowly, and peacefully, that Matthew awoke. And as he did, he became aware of things that he never had before.

Gentle breaths tickled, cool against the skin of his chest, from where her head lay tucked by his shoulder. He felt a deep warmth where her arm lay slung over his waist, and coldness where her toes curled against his calf. When his eyes cracked open, he saw how the pale beams of sunlight glinted softly across her hair, across the bare skin of her back and the side of her breast. And besides all that, he felt… no, he _knew_… the unhurried peace of the time that they had.

He woke, and Mary… his wife… was warm and naked in his arms, the promise of their future cradled in her womb between them. And he was _happy_, so blissfully, perfectly, _happy_. This time, for the first time, there'd been no shy or shameful fumbling to recover discarded clothes, no hurried and necessary goodbyes, no pain or shame of parting. There'd been no bittersweet knowledge that their pleasure was improper, that it must be disguised and put away. There'd been no sorrow of blame, no sense of despair for what must again be lost. For now, though they'd come to it far too late, they were married and could lie together like this; could sleep together and wake together and love each other, could make love and revel in that ecstasy without the shame it had previously borne.

God, what a fool he'd been. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, letting awareness of her fill his every sense. She was _here_, and there was no hurry. What had he been jealous of, afraid of? What of his darling Mary had he imagined that he must _share_ with another, a dead man? He realised now that it counted for nothing, or barely anything at least. A hurried joining of flesh, hands touching to skin that should never have been touched by any other than him, an hour (if that) of stolen, meaningless pleasure in the night, though it had not been _pleasure_ at all, not for Mary, he now knew. Is _that_ really what he had been so fearfully possessive of?

What was _that_, what could it be, compared to _this_? For months his imagination had conjured spectres of intimacy, intimacy that _should_ have been theirs alone and that he'd believed could never be, and for months he had let such thoughts haunt him and ruin them. Now, though, the dark shadows that had smothered his heart for those months had finally blown away. _This_ was intimacy, true intimacy… the pleasure of waking with his wife in his arms, having fallen asleep curled together after the sheer, unrestrained bliss of sex, and of knowing that this abounding joy could be theirs morning after morning after morning, as their marriage went on.

The realisation, the promise of it, was heavenly… and Matthew could only be sorry now that it had taken him so long to realise it.

At last she stirred, her body shifting against his chest.

"Good morning, my darling," Matthew breathed into her hair, pressing his lips to a gentle kiss there.

Mary's hand lifted to stifle a yawn, as she lifted her head to see him there, beside her, and her face transformed sleepily into the most blissful smile that Matthew had ever seen to grace her beautiful features.

"Hello…" Her greeting was shy, and happy… and together they instinctively knew that everything in the past between them, every shred of regret and blame and shame and despair, was forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but… put aside, or to rest, to not trouble them for one moment more in the wondrous reality of _this_. She leaned up, her mouth meeting his in a deep, languid kiss that went on, and on, as there was no reason why they should stop… Not yet, certainly, and so they didn't… indulging in an unspoken agreement to spend their morning reclaiming those months they'd wasted, to show the depth of their love again and again with their words and their mouths and their hands, their passion expressed so perfectly through the harmonistic movement of their bodies, and nothing in the world was more important than to show each other and to love each other as they now at last could.

Time became nothing, stretching endlessly ahead of them… and so, when Isobel returned that afternoon, Molesley was forced to explain in a stammering rush that Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary hadn't rung the bell all morning and he was beginning to wonder if he should see if anything was the matter. Isobel simply lifted an eyebrow and assured him that there was no need to worry yet, none at all, and offered him the distraction of her cases and the kindly offer to take the afternoon to help his father clear his garden. She thought it best to take the afternoon herself to visit the hospital, though there was no-one particularly to see.

* * *

A few weeks later brought the visiting fair to Downton's peaceful village. As men bustled around hoisting this and that into place, Mary stood quietly at the side of the green, watching it all come gradually together. She found it oddly fascinating, how disjointed slats of wood and brightly coloured boards were pieced together and suddenly became recognisable as a stall, or a stand, or even a helter-skelter rising as high as the trees. As she watched, her hand stroked idly over her rounded belly, smiling as she felt the baby shift beneath her palm. Her brief visit with Doctor Clarkson, just concluded, had left her contemplating with mingling anticipation and fear the fact that the babe in her womb was no longer some undefinable _thing_, but really her child… Her baby, that was real and formed and moving, responding, _alive_. Matthew had begun only that weekend to move things from his study, clearing the room to begin decorating it as a nursery. His desire to love and provide for the child, come what may, warmed Mary's heart with affection. But… it was all becoming very real, and fast. For all his determination, all his protestations that it was bound to be _their_ baby, _his_ baby… would he hold to that, when the time came, if…

"Good day, Milady!" Anna's bright greeting thankfully interrupted her thoughts.

"Ah! Hello, Anna. I was just watching the preparations. You should take some time this evening and go, if you'd like."

The maid nodded gratefully. "I'd like that very much, Milady, thank you." While Anna's loyalty to Mary was stout, and she'd moved with her to Crawley House without argument, she did sometimes miss the larger staff of the Abbey and hoped they might be released to enjoy the fair that evening as well. She clasped her hands together and smiled. "What about you?"

"Mr. Crawley has promised to take me on his return from work this evening. I can't say the prospect thrills me too much, but it would be a shame for him to enjoy it alone." She smiled at the thought of Matthew's excitement, and was happy to indulge it.

So it was that later that day, as the light was beginning to fade, Mary donned her coat once more at the familiar sound of Matthew's bicycle and the squeak of the brakes as he came to a stop outside the house. He opened the door, poking his head through and grinning as he saw her there, ready.

"Hello, darling. Are you all set?"

"Yes, I am," she smiled indulgently and kissed him in greeting, sighing happily as he allowed it to deepen for just a moment. She missed him, during the day, and the pleasure of seeing him again each evening and that first, sweet kiss was always a delight.

He took her hand, and they walked out together to the bunting-strewn village green where the fair resided.

"What do you fancy?" Matthew asked, looking around eagerly at the different stands. "Quoits, or – heavens, there's a fortune teller."

Mary raised her eyebrows, squeezing his hand. "So there is," she commented drily, and looked at her husband. He looked back at her, and they both knew at once that there was only one thing they'd possibly ask. Her voice, and her expression, softened. "Would you want to know?" she asked seriously.

A chill quivered through Matthew's veins at the very prospect. He didn't believe in that sort of thing anyway, not in the slightest, but even the notion of it… of _knowing_, if it were possible to know… The knowledge would change him, he knew that, whichever way it turned. The very thought horrified him.

"No," he said with conviction. "No, I wouldn't."

"Me either," Mary shook her head, and tucked her hands through his arm. For all that the uncertainty of her baby's heritage had crippled them in the past, she knew that while it _was_ uncertain, still… there was hope. And she knew that it shouldn't matter, or that it _didn't_, according to Matthew's every determination, but… she couldn't help but wonder how his determination would waver if the proof was not what they hoped. He would insist that it would make no difference, of course, he _would be_ the child's father, it _was_ their baby, and that was all that mattered… but such a conviction, she was sure, was easier said than done. She took a deep breath, quashing the threat of fear that rose in her chest, and guided Matthew toward the Coconut Saloon.

"Alright," he agreed softly, and paid the man by the stall as he handed a set of balls to Mary. He watched her throw, and chuckled proudly as she came close to the mark, before taking the next ball himself. "You must promise not to laugh at my terrible aim…"

He drew his arm back and hurled the ball, blushing at Mary's admiring gaze on him. It hit the back curtain, woefully far from any of the coconuts.

Mary laughed delicately. "Dear me, darling. Your usual modesty seems well earned, in this case!"

He glowered, and her laugh sparkled all the more brightly, before throwing her next with a gentle lob that came far closer than his had done.

"Well if you can't promise not to laugh," he smiled wryly, "you might at least promise to lie if anyone asks how I did…"

"I think I shall have to!"

Matthew glanced at her, and couldn't help but smile at the mischievous, fond twinkle in her eyes. After his next (he hesitated to lay the term 'pathetic' to it, apt though it would have been) attempt, he watched her throw carefully again.

"How was your visit with Clarkson, this morning?" he asked, his voice low with gentle concern.

"Oh, perfectly alright." She smiled reassuringly as Matthew took his last throw, and they turned away together to wander around the rest of the fair. "He says everything is quite as it should be, and all the wriggling seems to be a good sign!"

Matthew grinned at her happy response, remembering how much she'd complained lately at how active the baby had seemed, and how it wearied her.

"Well, that's good news darling." He kissed her cheek, letting his hand slide around to her belly, already thinking of how he could ease the aches and the tiredness from her body later that night.

* * *

Summer came quickly, and as the months changed from June, to July, to August, so Crawley House and the family within underwent its changes as well. Though the last few months had been happy, the happiest of both Matthew's and Mary's lives as they had delighted in the realisation of their love (how often and how eagerly they had proved it, again and again), they both privately knew that the day was coming soon when it would inevitably be tested.

Every time the thought occurred to Matthew, every time it crossed his mind that the baby's birth might be a _test_ at all, he despised himself for it and took up his efforts to decorate the nursery all the more eagerly. He loved Mary, he loved their baby, already, and he _would_, because it _was_ their baby and _would_ be, and he would give it everything that he could offer. The fact that he sometimes needed to remind himself of this only riled him further, and then he would worry that his determination to love the child was only so strong because he was worried that he would need to _prove_ it in some way, if… _if_…

"It looks wonderful, darling," Mary said softly, leaning against the doorframe behind him, looking round at the brightly painted walls and the wood and cotton of the crib. "You've worked so hard… Thank you."

Shamed by his own thoughts of just why he'd worked so hard, Matthew blushed and kissed her cheek.

"I hope it will do," he shrugged. "How do you feel?" His hand covered hers over her taut, heavily rounded belly, their fingers twining gently together.

She lowered her head, smiling faintly. "Exhausted and aching, but it seems that's all I can expect. I think I'll be glad when it's over at last!"

"I'm sure… Can I help?" His voice lowered as his hand stroked over hers, kissing her cheek again, then her jaw, allowing his mind the distraction of remembering the myriad ways in which he'd helped her find some release from the stresses of her pregnancy in the last few months.

She sighed happily, indulging (encouraging, even) his tender caress for a few precious moments… knowing that he could make her forget, and lose all her sense and care in the pleasure of his arms, and his body within hers but… the uneasy press of worry, and guilt, soon quelled the burgeoning desire that she felt for him. Her sigh deepened, and she frowned, pushing his hand gently away.

"No, darling… I'll be alright. I think I'll just rest."

Her heart ached at his disappointment, as he nodded and kissed her cheek chastely.

"Alright. Please, my darling, call for me if there's anything at all–"

"I will… of course, I will." She smiled bravely, squeezed his hand, and retreated to the solitude of their bedroom.

The truth was, it was Matthew's disappointment that she feared the most. As the time drew nearer, and she grew more and more irritable which hardly helped matters, she began to worry more and more that his opinion of her would change with the birth of their baby. For three blissful months they had managed to move on and forget… But when the baby was born, if it happened that there could be little doubt that Matthew was its father in spirit alone… she didn't know how they could go on. Could he love her still, with their very child a reminder of how she had betrayed him?

She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. Isobel had tried to reassure her, over and over, that her worst fears would be nigh on impossible to confirm in any case. If the baby's slight fluff of hair would be dark; well, so was Mary's, and according to the nurse all babies were born with blue eyes anyway so… there was really no need to fear. She knew that.

But even so… doubt niggled, and she worried that it would for Matthew, too. She couldn't bear for him to love their child out of obligation alone, if there _were_ doubt… God, she was being ridiculous! Her emotions, her sense, her rationality felt skewed and off-balance, and it frustrated her terribly… but for now, she couldn't bear to allow Matthew's closeness with the chance that it might be destroyed again so soon.

She tried to calm herself, tried to remind herself sternly that those worries were well past them and put to bed, but as much as she adored Matthew and his love, she could not trust that his feelings wouldn't betray him once more as they had done in the past. Oh, how she wished she could! Soon, _soon_, they would know… and until then, she would take the slight comfort of his warm arms around her at night and the gentle reassurance of his kiss upon her cheek, but she felt that she deserved no more… until then, but the closer it came, the more terrified she was of _then_.

Thankfully perhaps, August brought with it the distraction of the annual village flower show. Mary latched onto the cause, seeing how her mother grumbled over the arrangements and deciding that she could use the distraction herself. Cora was pleased for both the help and the time it gave her to spend with her daughter, as she reminded Mary that it would be her responsibility fully one day.

Mary could only roll her eyes at this and hope that one day would be far, far in the future… There was enough to worry about for _now_.

Matthew, who had noticed her recent withdrawal from him, and seen the tired, worried shadows under her eyes, had been trying desperately not to worry about her. He was afraid that she was tired, exerting herself too much, and tried hard to respect his mother's assurances that such behaviour was quite normal at this stage of things. As the preparations went on, though, it was evident to both Matthew and Isobel how she blossomed with occupation. And the day before the flower show, they went to the hall all together to see how the final arrangements were coming together.

Violet and Cora were there, too, and all were in agreement that everything looked quite splendid indeed. Mary glowed with pride, and not even her grandmother's arguing with Isobel could dampen her, on this occasion.

"I think we should let them settle it between them…" Matthew quipped quietly as the older women walked away, leaving the young couple alone.

Mary leaned upon his arm, laughing as she rubbed a soothing hand over her belly.

"I dread to think what would happen. Anyway darling, what do you think?"

"It looks wonderful, Mary, it really does. I can't compare it to last year's of course, but I can't imagine that it was any finer than this!"

His smiled was so endearingly proud, that Mary chuckled and smacked his arm lightly. His flattery warmed her heart, and she tried to simply enjoy it rather than letting her fears for their future encroach.

"Are you especially interested in flowers, then?" she asked, guiding the subject away from herself.

"I'm interested in the village," Matthew said, looking around the hall and wondering about all the traditions that went on here, that had done for years, that would do still… "You know I'm going up to inspect the cottages with your father after this. They're coming along wonderfully, you know – I'd love to show you, if you feel up to it."

Though it was a slight gesture, his faith in her on even the topic of the estate cottages reassured Mary of his love, and she appreciated it more than she could express to him.

"I'd like to, very much," she smiled. But then her stomach fluttered in a new, strange way, and she paled. "Perhaps not today, though, darling… if you don't mind."

Matthew saw the blood drain from her face, and how her hand flexed and tightened upon her belly.

"Darling, are you alright?"

"Perfectly," she smiled tightly, straightening herself. "Just in need of a rest, that's all. Why don't we say Monday, instead, when you've finished work. Would that be alright?"

Matthew frowned, unconvinced. "Yes, quite, but – Mary, you're terribly pale. Let me fetch Clarkson, or Mother–"

"No, honestly, I'm alright," she insisted. She _did_ feel alright now, the sensation had passed, she wasn't ready yet for anything else… No, she was sure she was alright. After a steadying breath or two, allowing Matthew's support, she nodded and allowed him to take her home, settling into bed as she tried to mask the tendrils of fear chilling beneath her skin. She _wasn't ready_, not yet, not for her hopes to be shattered, if they would be… But she was terrifyingly aware that she wasn't in control of time, that she couldn't hold it off forever, that the baby _must_ come soon… Not yet, though, not yet.

The afternoon passed into the evening, and the next day the flower show went ahead quite as planned, and Mary felt happier as she was able to stand beside Matthew and clap politely as each prize was handed out.

* * *

The week hurried on, and Matthew sat at his desk, thrumming his fingers along the top quietly. He panicked, that day before the flower show… and so had Mary, he'd seen it. But since then there'd been nothing, no sign, no alarm, no further indication that their baby was on the way. All week, he'd felt on edge with tension, wondering, waiting… and as the week went on, that tension slowly began to ebb and ease.

He looked over at the clock. Five o'clock had come, and passed, and still he sat at his desk. One more letter, he told himself, and pulled it across to read. His eyes scanned over it once, not taking in a single word, and he sighed as he rested his forehead upon his hand.

Of course he longed to be at home, but… it had been difficult, the last week. Mary had been terse, agitated, even… afraid, he wondered. But every attempt he'd made to calm her, to reassure her, had been thrown off and spurned. It was as though she didn't want him near her at all, and it made his heart ache after everything they'd been through. Oh, how he just wanted to be there for her… But his mother, and everyone else from Violet to the Earl himself, had cautioned Matthew that this was simply the way things were, at such a time. And so he tried to stay calm, tried to give her due space, however much to do so reminded him bitterly of the months he'd hidden away here by his own choice. Hadn't they moved on from that, hadn't they come so much further than that?

He sighed, frustrated with himself and all of it, hating the pall of uncertainty that seemed to hang over everything. He couldn't bear it, refused to seclude himself away from his wife when they surely needed each other more than ever, and stood up with fresh purpose. Snapping his briefcase shut, he pulled his jacket on and hurried out, tapping his fingers on his knee all through the train journey back to Downton before cycling to Crawley House as quickly as he could.

Opening the door, he felt at once the strange stillness of the house… before a loud, anguished cry – unmistakably Mary's – echoed from up the stairs.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _There we are! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it! I'm curious as ever to know what you thought, as things have progressed - there's only another chapter or two to go. _

_Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, and my best wishes for the festive season and the year ahead. And fingers crossed for a happy conclusion to the Christmas Special!_


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: _Hello to one and all! Thank you so much for all your responses to the previous chapter - I know it had been a long time, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you sticking with me. I wasn't expecting to write another chapter so soon, but I just felt pressed with the need to write this today, and out it popped! _

_Thank you so much to EOlivet for her tireless support and polish, and really to all of you reading and supporting me - thank you!_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty One**

Panic swelled in Matthew's chest as he dashed up the stairs, dropping his briefcase and hat on the floor as he went. He heard Molesley's timid voice calling him back from down the hall, but he ignored it.

"Mary?" he called out, praying that she wasn't alone and cursing himself for not having been here. "Mary!"

Before he could reach the bedroom door, his heart thudding loudly in his chest covering the silence following the sound of her cry, it opened and his mother stepped quickly out.

"Ah! Matthew, you're back," she smiled too brightly, wringing her hands together. She'd closed the door behind her, blocking without subtlety Matthew's anxious search.

"Mother – what's happening? I heard Mary –" He swallowed. "Is she alright? Is Clarkson–"

"Doctor Clarkson is with her, and she's perfectly alright. Come on, let's go downstairs and–"

"But she sounded in pain, I–" His eyes widened as another, weaker, cry rang from beyond the door. He tried to reach past Isobel for the handle, but her hand closed tightly over his. "Oh God, I need to see her–"

"Matthew!"

He stiffened at his mother's sharpness, turning wary eyes to her. She softened. "Mary is in labour, and I'm afraid there's nothing you can do. She will be in pain, but she _will_ be alright, Matthew – you must trust that. She, and the baby. Now, come on."

Watching the slow, but reluctant acceptance flicker in her son's eyes, she gently prised his hand away from the door. Dimly, he could hear the doctor's voice, and Mary's, and he swallowed back the helpless pain that shortened his breath.

"Can I at least… say something to her?" Tears brimmed in his eyes. Mary was giving birth… It was happening… He was terrified, utterly terrified, but God, how he loved her all the more.

Isobel thought for a moment, then slowly nodded, holding a hand up to wait as she opened the door just enough to look through it, shielding what lay within from his view. Matthew's fingers curled and clenched by his sides as he shifted restlessly on the spot.

"He's here," he heard his mother say. "He just wants to say–"

"Matthew? Don't come in–" Mary's voice sounded, breathless and weak. Matthew moved at once to the door, his head and his hands resting upon it though he made no move to enter.

"I'm here, darling. How do you feel?" It was a stupid question, he knew, but he needed her strength, her reassurance… None of this seemed real, having haunted his dreams for weeks and months.

"Don't ask!" he heard her laugh, then cough, then gasp in pain, as Clarkson encouraged her gently.

Matthew grimaced. "Mary if there's anything–"

"There isn't, darling. Please–" Her voice tightened in pain, again, her jaw clenching with effort that made Matthew shudder, even though he could only imagine it. "Please, just go away. It won't be long – at least – I hope it won't be long!"

Her dry chuckle made him smile, and though every fibre of his being argued against him, the strain in her voice was palpable and he knew he must leave her in the capable hands of Clarkson and his mother. If it was what she wanted. Trembling, he nodded, though she could not see.

"Alright, darling. I'll be downstairs. Mary, I… love you," he finished quietly, not even sure whether or not she'd heard him.

"I know, I–" She gasped, a whimper of pain escaping her lips.

Clarkson's stern warning of, "Lady Mary… I think it's time we–" But Matthew heard no more, as Isobel shut the door firmly.

Matthew looked to her with wild, distressed eyes, but she shook her head and grasped his arm.

"Downstairs," she ordered him, and steered him away herself. He put up no resistance, only wincing every time he heard the low, pained groans from upstairs. Feeling numb and weak with fear himself, he allowed Isobel to seat him, heard her order Molesley to bring him some tea even as she poured him something stronger, and tried to reign in his spiralling thoughts. It was now, and their baby was coming into the world – Mary was bearing it into the world – and they couldn't hide from it any longer, in only a short time it would be _here_ and undeniable and… he didn't know that he could face it, even as every fraction of his heart ached to see his wife and child.

Isobel was on her way out, back upstairs to help, when he called softly to her.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"What?" She turned back to him, to his pale, questioning eyes. Oh, she knew perfectly well _what_.

Matthew swallowed, his nails digging into the chair arm.

"Why didn't anyone tell me. I was at work, you all knew that, and yet no-one sent word."

"Well, we thought…" She faltered, unwilling to tell him the truth. How could she? "We knew you'd only worry, and would feel helpless sitting here unable to help. There was no need to draw it out for you, too, dear. You're here now, as we knew you would be, and that's what's important. Now, I must go."

She waited until he'd nodded, and then left to retreat back upstairs, leaving Matthew to stare in sullen anxiety at the cup of tea shoved into his hand.

Of course it was a lie. Well, perhaps it hadn't been a _lie_, but he knew it wasn't the whole truth.

Mary didn't want him there. She was afraid of… the outcome, and his response to it. And how could he blame her, when he was growing more terrified with each passing minute himself? She did not want him there to see, in case he did not like what he saw.

_It doesn't matter,_ he told himself. _It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter._ He sighed, and sipped his tea, and coughed as his throat closed and he struggled to swallow it. _Mary matters, the baby matters – our baby – our baby. _

He stared into the gentle rippling on the surface of his tea, realising absently that his hands were trembling. He raised his eyes heavenwards, then closed them, brows pinching together in distress as he heard the sounds of her pain and her labour. It occurred to him how painfully thin these walls must be, and then – _God, can Mother hear us so easily? _– and then a fundamental, fearful misery began to crush him, as he felt himself sink helplessly under it.

Mary was in pain, and he loved her, and he was desperately afraid, and there was nothing he could do.

His feet paced, his fingers drummed, his forehead creased, all his muscles tired and aching and knotted as if in sympathy of Mary's strain. The waiting, his helplessness, frustrated him dreadfully, and he barked at Molesley when the poor man offered to bring in more tea. It took his every effort to not run back upstairs, and even in rash moments when he wanted to, his limbs seemed frozen in place by fear.

And then, at last, silence fell… A greater silence than that between Mary's loudening cries, a breathless silence of anticipation, a silence more still, though the very air seemed to tremble.

Matthew stared upwards, holding his breath.

Another cry pierced the air, a loud, high-pitched wail that rose and ebbed.

Matthew sank weakly into a chair, his head falling into his clammy hands as a dry sob shuddered from his chest. _Our baby_, he thought, and a cautious flicker of happiness brought the faintest smile to his lips.

And he waited… and waited, for someone to come and tell him that it was over, that he could see them, that all was well. And then he would know, _they_ would know, and… God, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Sweat prickled at his brow as he taunted himself, and still, he waited. He began to pace again.

Upstairs, Mary stared blankly ahead of her, barely listening to Clarkson's pleased assurances of her baby's health. A healthy girl, she was told, and she smiled faintly. Papa would be disappointed but in Mary's eyes the news couldn't be better. It was a thought she'd kept to herself, appalled by it in the secrecy of her mind, but she wouldn't have been able to bear doubting their heir, if their child had been a boy. Clarkson knew nothing of the matter of course, and so when he asked brightly if Mary would like to see her daughter, he couldn't know how Mary's heart balked at the prospect.

Isobel held the baby, ready to give to her, as Clarkson smiled and followed the maid to another room to clean up. All Mary could see was a bundle of lace shawl, a tiny hand peeping over the top of it, and all she felt was sick, and conflicted. Isobel's expression was unreadable, but Mary wouldn't have noticed it anyway.

"She is beautiful, Mary," the older woman said quietly.

Mary swallowed. "Is she… I mean, can you…"

"You must see for yourself, dear."

Isobel came towards her, and Mary couldn't back away, as her heart pounded deafeningly and she shut her eyes, too afraid to open them and see the tiny, squirming baby that was suddenly in her arms. Too afraid to be faced with the truth that she – no, _they_ – would have to live with.

She felt Isobel's hand on her shoulder, and took a deep breath as she slowly opened her eyes.

There was her daughter. And a feeling, quite unexpected, of insurmountable love and protection exploded into her chest. This was her daughter, and she would love her, and protect her, no matter what their future brought. Tiny, tiny fingers clasped around her own, and tears stung her dry eyes.

She took a slow inventory. The fluff of hair was dark, the features delicate, the skin pale. Mary drew a trembling breath.

"I can't see her eyes," she murmured, and stroked at her baby's cheek.

"Give her a little time," Isobel said softly.

Mary nodded. She couldn't tell… _She couldn't tell_. She stared at her baby, and she couldn't tell. She'd somehow imagined that the moment she saw her baby, she'd know without doubt whether it was born of Matthew or the Turk, but… she didn't. She couldn't. And for all the love and the strength of attachment she immediately felt for the child in her arms, the doubt left a strange hollow in her chest.

_Matthew_, she thought. She stared at her baby, her daughter, her most precious gift, and thought _Matthew_. Matthew who'd married her, Matthew who loved her, Matthew who'd saved her, _Matthew_… Tears filled her eyes, and slipped down her cheeks. She so desperately wanted him to be happy, and was so afraid that he wouldn't be. How could she expect him to be, when she hardly knew if she was herself?

The baby coughed, and stirred in her arms. Mary watched in fascination as tiny eyes blinked open for the first time. Mary peered intently, her heat beating fast with curiosity, telling herself that it was _just to be sure_, she already loved her little daughter more than anything she'd known. But she had to be sure…

Dark… blue. Mary swallowed, wiping barely falling tears from her cheeks. Her baby's eyes were a dark, murky blue. Undeniably beautiful... but were they Matthew's blue, or just the blue of any newborn baby, that would later fade to brown? She looked to Isobel pleadingly.

"Isobel, I don't… I don't know," she whispered. "How can I not know?"

Her mother-in-law rubbed her shoulder in comfort, before rising to potter around the room, tidying and hiding the evidence of birth.

"Do you need to know?" she asked, matter-of-factly. "I know that she's yours, and that she's a beautiful little thing. Does the other thing really matter? Isn't it better this way?"

"I know it shouldn't matter…" Mary sighed, and lowered her head to press a kiss to her baby's forehead. Oh, no matter what else, she loved her. Nothing could change that. "But I can't help… being very afraid – I can't help wishing that–"

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Clarkson looked cautiously in. After one last perfunctory check to make sure that everything with Mary and the baby was fine and well, he packed his things back into his medical case to leave.

"I'll see myself out," he assured them kindly. "Would you like me to send Mr. Crawley up on my way? Poor chap will be going spare by now," he smiled.

"No!" Mary said reflexively, her eyes wide. "Just – another minute or so, but – please, tell him everything's alright."

Clarkson looked surprised, but nodded. He quite understood a woman needing time after giving birth, and despite his sympathy for the surely anxious Mr. Crawley, he wasn't about to argue with his wife just now.

"Alright, as you wish. I'll stop by again in the morning, to make sure everything's as it should be, but at this moment I can't imagine why that wouldn't be the case. Congratulations again, Lady Mary – and well done!"

"Thank you, doctor," she smiled wanly, grateful of his understanding. Despite his protestations, Isobel went to show him out, knowing privately that Matthew wouldn't be held off easily once Clarkson had left passing his seal of health on Mary and the baby.

She was right.

"I don't understand," Matthew spluttered, his pent-up worry manifesting now in frustration. "If she's – if _they're_ – alright, then–"

"You must give her time, Matthew!" Isobel rounded just as fiercely on him. "She's just given birth, it isn't easy you know!"

"God, I – know, Mother, you don't need to play that card."

"Then try to be a little more understanding of it," she admonished him, her own voice softening as she saw him withdraw. He slumped back into a chair with a heavy sigh, and Isobel sat gently beside him.

"Can you tell me anything?" he asked after a while, sounding a little more at peace. "I don't mean – I mean, if it's a boy or a girl, or – well, anything at all?"

Isobel smiled. "I don't think that's my place to tell, my dear."

She clasped his hand, and Matthew nodded slowly. His lips pursed, then parted as if to speak, before closing again.

His head lowered. "It's… not, is it."

"What?" Isobel turned sharply to him, worried by his miserable resignation. "Matthew, what do you mean?"

He turned to her, smiling sadly. "I mean… that's why Mary doesn't want me to see, yet, isn't it. Because she's afraid I'll be disappointed. If it weren't the case then–"

"Please, dear, don't think like that."

"Then tell me otherwise!" he snapped bitterly. The silence hung thickly between them, until the agitated stiffness of his limbs eased. "It doesn't matter, I just… wish that Mary would believe me. I just want everything to be alright."

He drew a shaky breath. It didn't matter. He wanted to see his wife, and their baby, because he loved them – _both_ of them – and that was it.

Slowly, Isobel said, "I won't tell you otherwise because it isn't my place. Whether it's clear or not, isn't for me to tell you. So, off you go."

"But, I thought…"

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Go, but – carefully, dear. Mary hardly knows what she's feeling at the moment, it's quite normal." She patted his hand encouragingly, and smiled as he rose to unsteady feet.

Mary was still cradling her child, gazing in fearful wonder at the perfect little eyelashes, fingers and toes that peeped above the shawl, smiling as the little nose wrinkled at the strange new air around it. Together, just the two of them, they were happy… and oh, how she hoped, prayed, that Matthew would be… but if he wasn't… she wanted to preserve and protect this moment. She was terrified that it would shatter, and she wouldn't know how to bear it.

A soft tap on the door startled her, and she unconsciously hugged her baby closer to her chest.

"Mary? Doctor… Clarkson said that you were quite well, and… the baby," his voice came quietly through. She could almost feel him against the door, and she stiffened, afraid. "How do you feel?" he asked. "I know you don't want me to come in, and I imagine I know why, but… darling, I just wanted to hear that you're alright."

Mary squeezed her eyes shut against her tears, that burst to the surface with affection for him. The baby stirred at the sound of this unfamiliar voice, though she didn't seem discomfited. It almost made Mary smile.

"Please don't come in yet," she gasped, terrified that his so very dear words would be bitten back in helpless disgust as he saw the baby that he still couldn't know was his own. "But we're both alright, Matthew. Thank you."

He was silent a moment, and she imagined him nodding to himself.

"Do we have a son, or a daughter?" he asked at last, and Mary's heart fluttered all the more at his natural thought of _we_, even now.

"A little girl," she answered him quietly, smiling down at the little girl in question who grasped her finger, and suckled it against her rosebud lips. Her little girl.

"Oh, Mary… how marvellous," Matthew said breathlessly, and beyond the door he smiled. He leaned against it, hands pressing to the cool, impassable wood as if it would bring him closer to them. "Please… could I see you both?"

Mary's thumb stroked restlessly against the softness of her baby's cheek, finding it soothed her own rapid, shallow breathing.

"Aren't you afraid?"

"I'm dreadfully afraid," Matthew laughed, as it was all he could seem to do if he weren't to break down. "But I know that I love you, and that I very much want to meet our child," he added. _Our child_. That had to be the truth, it _was_ the only truth that mattered.

"Oh, Matthew… I do love you, but I'm–"

"Darling," he interrupted. "I'm only growing more scared the longer you put me off, because there's only one reason I can think you would be. But it doesn't matter, I…" A loud sigh escaped him, and Mary's heart clenched.

"I'm afraid I look rather a state," she said tightly, trying to stay light-hearted while she could, still. "I wouldn't blame you being scared of that!"

Matthew laughed, heartening her. "I'm not, and I don't believe you anyway. Please, Mary, may I come in?"

His palm was against the door, imploring her, and she ached to see him. The love in his eyes that she knew so well, that she could hear in his voice… and it struck her again. How he asked… Matthew always asked. And she knew, without the slightest doubt, that he would stay beyond that door and come no further until she granted him entry. The memories of what seemed so long ago now flooded her mind, of what had brought them to this, and the first realisations of how she had loved him blossomed again in her heart. As if able to read her thoughts, the baby's little hands grasped out eagerly, stretching towards the new sound at the door, and Mary smiled tearfully at the thought that her darling daughter knew and wanted to meet her Papa. For that was what Matthew was.

She nodded, barely able to speak, before remembering that Matthew could not see.

"Yes, alright," she breathed.

Her heart raced with fear as she heard the door open, fixing her eyes on the precious face of her baby. She couldn't look at Matthew, couldn't bear his face as he looked, and puzzled, and worked out the same conclusion she'd come to… that they didn't know. They couldn't know. How had they _thought_ they could know, from such a tiny baby? She stiffened as the bed dipped beside her, and she felt the warmth of his body beside hers, as still she looked at her daughter, fascinated by the dark eyes that peered widely up at the new face above her.

She saw Matthew's hand, his finger outstretched to touch the tiny hand that reached up, stroking softly as tinier fingers curled around his. She held her breath.

"She looks just like you," Matthew sighed at last. "She's exquisite, darling. Absolutely exquisite… just like you."

Happiness spread through him, and a peace, quite unlike anything he'd known before. He could hardly believe it, but the question of her fatherhood had… disappeared. The moment that Matthew saw her, so tiny and vulnerable, innocent, _perfect_, in Mary's arms… he could see nothing else. Just her, the both of them, his wife and their daughter, both perfect to him. No other thoughts could even enter his head, as he smiled wondrously down at them both.

Mary could hardly believe it. Her whole body sagged in relief, her head nestling naturally back into the crook of his shoulder as her tears welled again.

"Oh, darling… I can't believe she's here." She felt as though this was a dream; it was too perfect, it must be, the pain only a dim memory now… and for a moment she panicked, anticipating the moment of waking. But Matthew's arm was around her shoulders, warm and real and comforting, and the sight of his hand covering hers, holding their child, was too vivid to be a dream.

Matthew chuckled lightly. "I'm so pleased she is. I'm so pleased, Mary… can I kiss you?" She looked up at him for the first time, and his face was nothing but happy earnestness, his eyes shining with unshed tears as his voice trembled with emotion. "'Cause I need to… very much."

All she could do was nod, barely that, and fight back tears as his lips came softly to hers, and they kissed, slowly and sweetly. They parted as the baby squirmed in their arms, a little cry murmuring past her lips as if seeking their attention.

Matthew tickled at her soft, perfectly smooth skin through the swathes of cotton shawl, completely enraptured.

"Well hello, my dearest little one!" he breathed happily. "Mary, I can't believe how beautiful she is, or – how happy I am, or – darling, that she's ours. It's too much to believe."

"I know," Mary hummed, nestling closer against him. Oh, she'd been so afraid of losing him, that he would draw away from her… and instead, she felt his closeness like never before, and her fears seemed only a distant nightmare. He was with her, and real, and… he loved her. No, he loved _them_. "She really is ours, isn't she?"

"Perfectly and completely ours, darling."

Matthew smiled down at his family, feeling utterly content, and luckier than he felt he deserved to be after the way he'd treated Mary when they'd married, and how he'd resented the child he hadn't even known. Mary was healthy, and their baby was beautiful and so like her, and… he was relieved. Relieved that they were here, and happy, and… all together. He, and Mary, and their baby.

_Our baby._

__**Fin**

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****A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! :) Now, I've marked the fic as complete here, because... truly, it's the end of the story. I'd always envisaged a little closure after this chapter/scene, but as I wrote it, I felt like... it's wrapped itself up. However - if there would be interest for it, I'm open to the idea of an epilogue! I'd quite like to add an epilogue, but I just felt that here is where the story in its heart ends. So please, let me know - if people would like an epilogue as a little more, to wrap things up, I'll certainly see what I can do!_

_For those of you who've stuck through with this story, thank you SO much. I know it's been a bumpy ride at times, but your support and comments has mean the world to me, and I hope very much that you've enjoyed it! As to Baby Crawley - I hope you won't mind me leaving it ambiguous, for now. It was always my intention, though of course I know in my head - but I like to think that as she grows up, things would become more apparent perhaps, but it would be beside the point as she is, in every way that would matter, Matthew's daughter - and he loves her as such, whether he's sure of her heritage or not - as far as Matthew's concerned, she is his daughter, and that's all that matters to me. :)_

_Thank you once more!_


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